The Angry Doctor
by Stryder2008
Summary: A tag to "The Lying Detective". What if John had gone too far during his rage and the injuries sustained by Sherlock at his hands wer far worse than just a few bruises? A coma in fact. How will the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had, in turn, done to Sherlock? No SLASH. Friendship only. Angsty though. Rated-T for some language.
1. The Angry Doctor

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **The Angry Doctor**

 **Chapter 1**

John Watson stood inside the sterile hospital room, his eyes staring into the blank space above the head of Sherlock Holmes as he tried to understand the inconsolable rage that was still bubbling in his stomach. The darkness inside the room had only a little to do with the low light and felt as though it was sinking into his very soul in a way that he didn't want and yet couldn't avoid. The dark-haired, thin man lying in that blasted bed had been his best friend and yet, now, the doctor couldn't see past the red haze of anger in order to forgive him for what he'd done. The loss of Mary had tainted something in their relationship that not even the consulting detective's faked death had been able to shatter.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was lying unconscious and battered on the small single bed in a private room within the hospital owned by a man that he'd accused of being a serial killer only days before. And the funny thing was, John couldn't bring himself to care…not anymore. It was entirely possible that Sherlock had been completely off his tits on drugs and made the entire thing up in that insane _mind-palace_ of his. Or there was an even smaller possibility that he was correct and John was leaving Sherlock, helpless, inside the predator's den.

The army doctor hadn't been able to control the physical aggression that had blurred his normally pliable mind nearly twelve hours earlier. John had seen Sherlock Holmes on drugs in the past, but he had never seen the man completely lose his bloody mind. And the doctor had no doubt that that was exactly what he had seen inside that sterile room. It had been the complete disassociation of the detective from the junkie. The man that had threatened Culverton Smith and his daughter had not been Sherlock; it had been a full-blown drug addict in the middle of a delusional episode.

That might actually be the most devastating thing of all for the doctor. Having seen the most brilliant man that John had ever known completely lose his rational mind and fall victim to the altering effects of the narcotics coursing through his system. The drugs were obscuring his ability to _think_ and for someone like Sherlock that was awful.

John ignored the footfalls outside the room, choosing instead to lean forward and rest his hands on the railing at the end of Sherlock's bed. His gaze shifted over to the walking stick sitting untouched next to him. The intention in bringing it had been as a way of telling the other man that they were done. There would be no further adventures or interactions between them. John didn't have it in him to forgive the detective for his arrogant and deadly mistake with Vivian Norbury. It had been a mistake that had cost John everything…and could not forgive that.

Sherlock had continued to push a woman that had already proven that she was willing and capable of killing to further her own ends. Had Mary not stepped in front of the overbearing and cocky detective, none of this would have happened. In fact, if Sherlock had not insisted on baiting the old woman, they would not now find themselves on opposite ends of divergent paths. John and Mary's daughter would not now grow up without her mother. John could not risk her growing up without a father too.

The door opened and a nurse walked in. John recognized her from earlier when she'd insisted that _his_ blog was really Sherlock's blog…and then to add insult to injury, that it "had gone down hill a bit" once she realized that it actually _was_ John's blog. She appeared surprised to find anyone in Sherlock's room, which John supposed should not have, in turn, surprised him. It wasn't as though the arrogant detective had a lot of friends or even people, beyond Mycroft, that would visit him in hospital. Oh there was a chance that Molly would show up, more of a probability than a chance. And then there was Mrs. Hudson, she could always be counted on to turn up in Sherlock's corner.

"Oh, I didn't know anyone would be here." The dark-haired nurse bustled over to the chart and took some readings, writing them inside the folder. Her dark eyebrows cutting together at something she saw there, but she quickly wiped her expression clear and forced a smile before turning away.

John observed the shift in her face, but chose not to ask about it. He didn't really want to know more about Sherlock's condition. Not more than he already did, being that he was somewhat responsible for the consulting detective's current hospitalization. He knew that Sherlock was suffering from double kidney failure, malnutrition, and a near overdose. But that wasn't what John didn't want confirmed; it was verification of the aftereffects of the beating that the other man had sustained the hands of his supposed _best friend_.

The doctor was already aware of the worst parts. The contusion on Sherlock's left eyes was a deep black and the swelling had yet to dissipate. There were several dark stitches holding a cut in his eyebrow together. At this point the damage hadn't been fully assessed by the medical staff and couldn't be until the injured man regained consciousness, which he had not...not yet. Sherlock had dark bruising across his sharp cheekbones, bruising that was indicative of severe trauma to the eye socket and the prominent bones that were so visible on the angular face of the consulting detective. There were likely other injuries that John could not see. He couldn't remember how many times he'd kicked the younger addict as he'd been struggling to get off the cold tiled floor of the morgue. Which meant that it was possible that Sherlock had bruised, separated, or even broken ribs. Too many years patching up soldiers that either been injured in combat or over a weekend bender that resulted in a nasty fight told the doctor what to expect if he read that chart.

John simply hadn't been able to stop himself from repeatedly kicking Sherlock, even though he was down and essentially defenseless as the doctor had worked through his own rage and loss at the consulting detective's expense. The worst part had been when the orderlies had had to pull John off of the downed man. Sherlock wasn't fighting him, he wasn't trying to stop him…he was simply lying there, _taking_ everything that was thrown at him. It was _John_ that hadn't been able to stop. All of his pain and anger had spiraled down in a focused attack, feeding that one outbreak of violence and Sherlock had offered him an outlet; one that John had immediately accepted and used to assuage some of his own guilt at the expense of his friend's health.

John shook his head and laid the walking stick against the chair. The brilliant man would make the deduction as what it meant when he awoke. The doctor was carrying too much of his own guilt to accept anymore involving Sherlock Holmes, the only course of action left to him, was to leave.

He turned toward the door, ignoring the ringing of the phone that pulled the nurse's attention away from the scene she'd just witnessed.

A murmur of her 'hello' and a brief pause before, "Dr. Watson? It's for you."

He sighed and then rolled his eyes before returning to take the call. "Hello Mycroft…"

221B 221B

"Miss Me?" The two words both shocked and disgusted John the moment he saw them. These awful words had been written in black sharpie on the outside of the DVD that Sherlock had been unable to decipher. It had been stabbed on his mantle of 'unanswered questions'.

So did this mean that Moriarty was back? Were they again in danger of being destroyed by the consulting criminal? John didn't know. He only knew that he had to see what was on that dvd. He could not be caught in the dark, not again, not with his daughter now in the mix. The doctor would need to be prepared for anything that the criminal classes might throw at him.

But the moment Mary's beautiful face had popped up on that damned screen and John had realized that it was a private message that she had sent to _Sherlock_ , he had wanted to shut it off. Immediately Mrs. Hudson had rousted everyone from the flat in an attempt to give him some privacy as he watched the last words of the woman he loved to someone other than him.

It wasn't as though there was, or even could have been, something going on between Mary and Sherlock. But knowing that she had suspected that something like this may happen, was shocking. She had never warned him, not once, that her past might reach up and steal their future. Mary had always been able to see the 'big picture', even when John could not.

He stared at the screen in stunned silence when she started explaining what it was she needed from Sherlock; John's heart nearly stopped as realization flooded in. He was suddenly back inside the morgue, as though he was watching the whole scene from the perspective of a bystander.

 _The Morgue…_

 _It had all gone awry so quickly that he hadn't even realized he had picked up the scalpel and was threatening the billionaire. Sherlock couldn't hold onto his thoughts, they were flitting in and out of his mind like wisps of smoke and he couldn't seem to grab hold of them long enough to evaluate them properly. He'd had a plan when he'd gone into this, but now he couldn't remember what it was...or the backup plans to his plan._

 _When it had started, Sherlock had anticipated a very different outcome. He had known that he was skirting a line with John, one that was likely to blow up in his face, but he had had no choice. Losing the doctor to the blinding anger of rage and then the overwhelming depression of loss, simply wasn't an option; so Sherlock had done the only thing he could…he had allowed himself to drop heavily into his addiction and hoped like hell that he didn't drown in it. Because unlike Mary, he wasn't entirely sure that John would 'be there' at the end of this whole thing._

 _There had been so much pain and soul-wrenching devastation in his reaction to Mary's death at the aquarium. That inhuman sound he'd made had been unlike anything that Sherlock had ever heard from another person. And it was something he sincerely hoped he never heard again, especially from someone that he cared about._

 _But that was only one part of the problem, there was now the possibility that Sherlock had fabricated the woman that had come to his flat, giving him information that he could not have learned any other way. Was it possible that he'd deteriorated so far that he could no longer identify reality from delusion? And if so…what did that mean for his chances at recovery when all this was over? The consulting detective couldn't answer any of those questions. Even worse, was the fact that he couldn't hold a series of thoughts inside his fractured mind long enough to dissect all the necessary information from them. He was losing himself..._

 _Sherlock he'd never anticipated that it would be John that finally knocked him back into 'reality'. His best friend, or his previous best friend since he wasn't sure exactly how John regarded him at the moment, had landed a right cross that had seriously dazed the broken detective. Even as it had cut his feet out from under him. Sherlock had landed in a heap at the base of the freezer drawers, his head bouncing off the floor, hard, sending shooting pain coursing through his already abused brain._

 _He'd tried to get back up, to lever himself off the cold tile, back onto shaky legs, and continue baiting the only predator inside that room, but John's fist had slammed into his face again and again, preventing that action. Bursts of white blinding lights exploded at the edges of Sherlock's vision and his head was immediately swimming in agonizing pain. It was almost more painful knowing that John 'wanted' to hurt him than actually feeling the doctor's knuckles landing solidly against his prominent cheekbone._

 _221B 221B_

The present...

"I'm giving you a case. Might be the hardest case of your career. When I'm gone…if I'm gone, I need you to do something for me." Mary's eyes were focused and intense as she stared at the camera. It was evident that she had put a great deal of thought into this last communication with the consulting detective. There was a small part of John that was jealous of that. Jealous that his wife had made the effort of explaining her last wishes to Sherlock, but not to her husband. But the next words out of her mouth destroyed any illusion as to what this message was. A lump formed in his throat and his eyes burned, making him blink several times to clear the blurry vision.

"Save John Watson. Save him, Sherlock. Save him. Don't think that anyone else is going to save him, because there isn't anyone. It's up to you. Save him."

Suddenly the reckless behavior of the most calculating man that John had ever known started to make sense. As far as John knew, Sherlock had never tried to contact him after Mary's death. Molly had never told him whether or not she'd had to give the self-proclaimed sociopath John's note. And John had not asked.

Psychology had never been John's favorite subject in school, not even during medical school where an understanding of the behavioral factors affecting recovery from injuries was essential. He'd come to understand more of it since meeting Sherlock Holmes, but it was still a bit of an enigma to him. As he stared blank-faced at the recording by his late wife, John gathered that was not the case for Mary. She had isolated the core traits of both her husband and the consulting detective within months of meeting them both.

"But I do think you're going to need a little bit of help with that, because you're not exactly good with people. So here's a few things you need to know about the man we both love. And more importantly, what you're going to need to do to save him." Mary continued to explain her plan for John's salvation and it felt like someone was driving white-hot dagger into his heart.

 _How could I not have seen this?_ Things were starting to slip into place and John was both dumbfounded and terrified that he could have so completely misjudged the situation. He wiped his hand down his tired face and shook his head slightly as he continued to listen.

Mary's words…it was like she'd reached inside his head and pulled his innermost thoughts from the depths of his psyche. How on God's little green earth had she _seen_ so much about him and yet he hadn't _noticed_ anything important about her? She'd had to reveal who and what she was before John understood the woman he'd fallen in love with. Even now he wasn't so sure that he really _knew_ Mary Watson.

"John Watson never accepts help. Not from anyone, not ever. But here's the thing…he never refuses it. So here's what you are going to do." Her face softened as she spoke of his strengths as well as his biggest weakness. His heart clenched upon hearing her words...because she was right.

John's mouth dropped open as she went through the details of her carefully laid out plan. His fingers clenched at the edges of the chair and his eyes continued to burn as he realized the full extend to which Sherlock had gone to _save him_. As if he needed any more guilt in his life, the doctor was being to drown in the depth of emotions flooding to the surface. Her next words halting his racing thoughts and he blinked in surprise.

"You can't save John, because he won't let you. He won't allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John is to make him save you." She continued.

Mrs. Hudson sat, unmoving, on the small wooden chair next to John's chair. She never uttered a word as she watched John learn the truth that she had always known. Sherlock would do anything for John Watson…anything, including die.

"Go to hell, Sherlock. Go right into hell and make it look like you mean it. Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harms way. If he thinks you need him, I swear he will be there."

The video clicked off and John continued to stare wide-eyed at the black screen, his entire body frozen in that moment of clarity. He had misjudged everything so badly and then he had _beaten_ Sherlock for trying to bring him back from the brink of hell. The detective had done what she'd asked and more. He'd trashed his own body in order to get John's attention and he'd placed himself in the path of, what Sherlock believed, was a serial killer. And he'd done all of this to _save John_.

His eyes flickered down to the dark bruises on his knuckles and his stomach flipped dangerously. He gulped back the bile that immediately rose at the thought of what he'd done. John had needed to hit something. His anger had needed an outlet, a face…

"I hit him." He muttered softly. "I hit him hard." The lump that was threatening to choke him cut off his words.

Mrs. Hudson's face softened as she laid her hand on his shoulder. "John," she started. "Sherlock needs you now. He's done what he can. Now it's your turn to throw the dice."

John's tortured gaze lifted to meet hers and he was surprised see, not condemnation, but concern and support reflected in her wise face. He surged to his feet and started toward the door. A realization had him moving more quickly. Sherlock had done all of this on purpose, which meant that he wouldn't have targeted Culverton Smith if he hadn't _known_ that the man was guilty of something. In this case the consulting detective had managed to rouse the ire of one of the most dangerous men they'd ever come up against. The bastard had managed to hide his _addiction_ for years and now Sherlock was lying unconscious in that man's lair.

221B 221B

 _Sherlock sat silently in his black leather chair, his legs pulled up against his chest, his arms were wrapped around them in an effort to keep warm and stop the shaking. He was alone. It was dark and cold inside his mind-palace. A single lamp threw light from the corner, but that was it. There was nothing comforting about this place, not anymore._

 _He knew he was hurt, at least he was out there in the real world, and he knew that he wasn't likely to wake up any time soon. He could feel the distant aches and pains, but he was able to remove himself from that to some degree. His mind was spinning like a top and he was helpless to stop it._

 _Everything that had happened was his fault. He'd been so sure of his own 'brilliance' that he'd gotten Mary killed to prove it. He swallowed as he remembered her dying words. 'I think we're even now.'_

 _And they were. Sherlock had thought they were even long before that moment. She may have shot him, but she'd saved John when Sherlock couldn't…so as far as he was concerned they were even. But then he'd gotten caught up in the game and it had cost him everything._

 _His gaze dropped to the floor and he sighed. Sherlock had no intention of leaving his mind palace any time soon. If Culverton killed him? Well, that would be just fine. Because then he wouldn't have to go back to the empty loneliness that now infiltrated every part of his world. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to rely on John. Sherlock hadn't understood that he'd fallen helplessly in love with Rosie and the thought of not seeing her grow up was unbearable. He'd never particularly liked children, though they were honest where adults were generally not…that had been a pleasant surprise. But something about the cherubic little face of the baby had dissolved Sherlock's defenses and actually care about her. He wasn't entirely sure what that meant, but it was true._

 _He considered all of the times he'd told John that 'love' is a weakness, but now he understood…love is the ultimate strength. The things that a person would do because they loved someone were unlimited. He knew this because he was doing the unthinkable to try and save his friend…his best friend._

 _Sherlock's eyes shifted over to where the skull rested dull and silent on the mantle and he frowned. He pulled in a deep breath as he was reminded of what his life had been like in the beginning…before John. Cases had been his only escape from the rampant spinning of his brilliant mind. Only a promise to his brother had kept him from diving back into the syringe. Now it looked as though he would be breaking that promise. He needed something to calm his mind and he no longer had John to help with that. Which really only left Sherlock with one-option…drugs. And he wasn't sure that he wanted to go down that road, not really. But what were his alternatives?_

 _Memories of the aquarium constantly played out inside his head. Whether he liked it or not, Sherlock couldn't separate the distress of the feelings at losing John and Mary from the tragedy of that night. There was also the problem of his perfect recall; he couldn't forget the rising anger he'd seen on the old woman's face as he had continued to berate her. But never in his wildest dreams had he thought that the kindly-looking old woman would try and shoot her way out of there like some sort of American western at the OK corral._

 _His pale gray eyes shifted over where the note was lying open on the table next to his chair. It was the note that John had instructed Molly give to him if he'd gone by the doctor's flat offering to help the Watsons. Sherlock's hands had trembled as he'd unfolded and read through the hand-written message from John. The words that essentially ousted him from both the doctor's life and the life baby Watson._

 _Sherlock would have taken a hundred beatings over the finality of those crisp words. Even now he couldn't bear to recall what they had been, it was too painful. A very small part of him wondered if it was even worth waking up at all…_

 _221B 221B_

John raced up the stairs and found himself staring at the guard that Lestrade had placed outside of Sherlock's room. The man tilted his head and raised an eyebrow at John's disheveled and manic state. "Are you alright, Dr. Watson?"

"Has anyone entered that room?" He was nearly out of breath as he rushed toward the room.

"Other than the doctors about two hours ago, no. Why?"

John blew out a breath and nodded before going to enter the room. A nurse hurried around the corner at the same time. She didn't seem surprised to she John back at the hospital. "Dr. Watson…did Dr. Huran's office get ahold of you?"

He shook his head 'no' and grabbed at the handle of the door. She rushed forward blocking his path. "You may want to speak to him before you go in there."

Something inside of John froze. "What's happened?"

Her face took on the _look_ that John had used when explaining a less than positive outcome to worried family members of patients. "I'm afraid there have been some complications. I really think you need to speak to Dr. Huran."

"What happened?" he asked again. This time his voice dropped and he took a step toward her. She involuntarily took a step back and glanced at the cop standing outside the room.

"I'm afraid there was more damage done than we had initially thought. There is swelling of the brain and…" she trailed off and looked down the hallway in order to gather her thoughts. "Mr. Holmes is in a coma."

 **Author's Note:** _Please take a moment and leave a review if you're interested in the rest of the story. Cheers!_


	2. Chosen Lives

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 2**

 _Chosen Lives_

John stared at the nurse, his expression lay somewhere between shock and surprise. Never in a million years had he thought that Sherlock had been that injured. A part of him rebelled against the idea that he would leave the consulting detective if he _had_ known. And yet, if he was really honest with himself, he knew that he would have…he'd been too angry to see past that and it wouldn't have mattered what state Sherlock had been in.

His medical training was causing his brain to spin with the magnitude of possibilities as to what could have changed in those few hours after he'd left the hospital and now. An uncomfortable feeling of responsibility was lurking in his gut as he, again, considered his own violent reactions to Sherlock's declining _condition_ in the morgue.

John had been furious that the man had conned him into another case. Whether or not he wanted t believe it, the doctor knew that he was still impressed by the sheer brilliance of the man inside that room. They'd known each other for years and Sherlock had put him through hell, but he remained the most brilliant man that John had ever met.

The trick of scheduling the meeting with Culverton Smith, the one that had been scheduled nearly two weeks before John had even _thought_ about getting a new therapist, had been nothing short of magnificent. And it had been irrefutable proof that, while Sherlock may have fallen back into old habits, his deduction skills were still functioning flawlessly.

"I don't understand. He was fine." John's eyes dropped and he cringed when the bruising on his knuckles caught in the low light.

Her face softened and she patted him on the shoulder. "I really think you should speak to Dr. Huran. He can give you a more complete analysis of what's going with Mr. Holmes."

John lifted his eyes and he nodded. "Why are you telling me this? Any of this? I would think that Sherlock's condition would only be explained to immediate family?"

While they were a great many things to one another, _family_ they were not. She furrowed her eyebrows and blinked in surprise at his question. "Mr. Holmes recently changed his emergency contact to you, Dr. Watson." She shrugged. "I assumed you knew that."

The knot inside his stomach clenched painfully at yet another revelation of Sherlock's faith in him. A faith that John had not lived up to…it appeared as though he failed the two people he loved most in the world.

Why would Sherlock have done that? They hadn't exactly been on speaking terms, so the idea that the man would have changed anything from Mycroft to _John_ was nothing short of shocking. He swallowed the building lump of emotions that were welling up in the back of his throat before inhaling deeply and finally shaking his head 'no'. "When did this happen?" he asked quietly.

She glanced down at the chart in her hand. "The order was changed three and half weeks ago."

John's mouth dropped open in surprise. Sherlock had changed it the day after Mary's death, which meant that he'd been planning this for weeks.

The need to know Sherlock's medical conditions had never come up in the past. Mostly because Mycroft shared any of Sherlock's medical information with him anyways, but now, as John stood in the hallway and tried to wrap his head around the idea that Sherlock had anticipated he'd end up in the hospital; it took on a whole new meaning.

"His brother wasn't aware of the changes either…not at first." She added softly.

He could tell that she wanted him to speak to the doctor assigned to Sherlock's case, but John needed to know right now. He had no patience for the stalling, not now, not with so much at stake.

John's eyes shifted to the door. "When did all this happen?"

She had just started to speak when a familiar voice interrupted and John felt his stomach drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his shoes.

"About the time Mrs. Hudson was chucking my team from Sherlock's flat." Mycroft's words were even and reflected none of the emotions that John was certain the elder Holmes was feeling. "Apparently he took one too many knocks to the head." Mycroft's voice dropped and took on an edge of icy coolness as he continued, "That compounded with the strain that the overdose had already placed on his system, was simply too much for his body to handle. This caused swelling and…" Mycroft inhaled deeply. "He had a seizure. It caused additional trauma to the brain and resulting in a bleed."

Hearing the medical facts from Sherlock's brother only made the whole scenario worse for John, because the bleed was entirely his fault. He'd been the one to knock Sherlock around, but he had never considered that it might result in something like this. He could feel the jarring pain echoing over his knuckles, the pain that he had inflicted on _his friend_.

"Did you know he changed his emergency contact?" Frankly, John needed to take a moment to absorb what he'd just been told about Sherlock and asking about the contact information gave him some much-needed time.

Something unfamiliar flitted across Mycroft's face. _Jesus…it's doubt. Mycroft isn't sure where he and Sherlock stand. Well, welcome to that club._ It wasn't a reaction that John had ever seen in the normally stalwart man. The elder Holmes was one of the most self-assured men that the doctor had ever met. John could feel his chest tightening as another realization washed over him. He had handled this all wrong. Not only had he dealt poorly with Sherlock, but also with Mycroft.

"Not until earlier this evening." He lifted unsure eyes to the doctor's and then turned away. Is face clouding as his stern gaze landed on the nurse, "We would like to see my brother."

She smiled. "Of course." She opened the door and allowed John and Mycroft to step past her before she closed the door after them.

John stumbled to a stop. The full-force of what he'd done crashed down around him and he couldn't take the final few steps toward the unconscious man lying in the bed less than two meters in-front of him. The bruising around Sherlock's left eye socket had darkened and the gash in his eyebrow had taken on the deep burgundy of dried blood. But this time inside the room, Sherlock wasn't the same. He was attached to an electrocardiogram and the functions of his brainwaves were being tracked on a small monitor next to the bed.

It wasn't that the former army doctor hadn't seen this type of thing before, but it had never been someone he cared about on a personal level. Outside of Mary, there hadn't been all that many people in John's life that he considered _friends_. And certainly, there had never been anyone like Sherlock Holmes.

"He won't blame you." Mycroft said quietly. His gaze flicked between his brother and the man that Sherlock had chosen as his best friend. The wide-eyed look that the doctor shot over compelled him to continue, "When he wakes up, Sherlock won't blame you for…" his hand gestured toward the bed. It was obvious his intention was to try and make this easier for John, but the doctor wasn't sure it should be _easier_.

John's mouth opened and closed several times before he finally found his words. "I _do_." He said simply.

Mycroft lifted his eyebrows in surprise, before folding his arms across his chest. It was a familiar gesture and one that John had been expecting. It was the way that Mycroft Holmes expressed his desire for an explanation without actually having to ask for one.

"Mycroft, I uh…the dvd…" The pit in John's stomach spread out like the Grand Canyon and he fought to keep the dizzying feeling from destroying his thoughts. He felt as though he was trapped in a dream and everything he said from here on in, wouldn't carry the same weight in the reality of the situation he now found himself in. His dark blue eyes focused in on the cut marring Sherlock's eyebrow and the injury pulled him back into reality. "Mary asked him to…" he swallowed thickly. "She asked Sherlock to _save_ me." His voice broke on the last word and he looked away as the burning sensation behind his eyes increased.

Mycroft searched John's face attempting to read the emotions hiding behind the reflected pain. The doctor couldn't meet his gaze for very long and quickly lowered his eyes after only a moment of contact. The tile beneath him was a pale white; it looked like every other hospital tile that he'd seen over the years. But there was something unsettling about this tile...John couldn't put his finger on what it was.

"I can't say that I'm surprised." He finally said. Mycroft held his hands up to stop John's immediate rebuttal. "That does sound like something Mary Morstan would do."

John's eyes snapped up and he tipped his head to the side in question. "How much do you know about her? Before I met her…I mean." He knew he shouldn't dig at this particular grave, but John couldn't stop himself. He missed her so much it hurt in places he didn't even know existed. Add to that the guilt of what he'd done to Sherlock, and John was beginning to think a bullet might not taste so bad.

Except…now there was Rosie to consider, so even _that_ wasn't an option anymore. John was going to have to live with what he'd done, whether he wanted to or not.

"Enough to know that she meant what she said before she died. John, what occurred at the aquarium was tragic. No one is denying that, but these things tend to happen in her line of work." His eyes shifted to his brother. "And in his."

"Do you think that makes any of this better?" John shot back as the anger rose from his gut finding an outlet in the burning gaze now pinning the elder Holmes in place.

Mycroft shook his head. "No, I do not. I simply want you to remember that they both had a choice in the lives they chose. Just as you _chose_ to be in those lives."

221B 221B

 _Sherlock stared at the simply silver mirror above the wooden mantle. He'd never really paid any attention to it before, but now…he found himself staring at it and trying to ascertain why it fascinated him suddenly. He finally made the decision that it might be because it felt like insight into his present and a reflection of his past._

 _The mirror had a way of revealing things about Sherlock that he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Of all the places in his mind palace that he felt at ease, the living room of 221B had always been at the top of that list. But now as he stared at himself, watching as the mirror cracked slowly; he despised what he saw there._

 _He had been so cocky, so sure that he'd figured out the secret behind the A.G.R.A. memory stick. He knew that Vivian had been responsible for outing the team. Yet, he had not fully comprehended the lengths to which she would go to ensure she was_ remembered _. And he wasn't entirely sure how he had missed such an important deduction._

 _His gaze flickered over to John's chair and he frowned before settling down into his leather seat, his eyes never left that floral reminder of what Sherlock had lost. Guilt didn't begin to describe how responsible he felt for Mary's death. He had meant it when he'd told Culverton to let John continue the thrashing he'd started in the morgue. He knew that he deserved whatever John threw at him and he would take all of it for as long as John needed an outlet. Because this was his fault, he'd killed his best friend's wife. He believed that, to the very depths his blackened soul, he believed that. He was tainted; everyone that Sherlock had seen fit to care about had been ripped out his life in one way or another._

 _His brother's words floated across the mirror as his gaze slid sideways. "Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

 _There was no doubt in his mind as to his culpability in Mary's death. Sherlock had spent much of his life ignoring other people. He'd never really felt that he needed to be involved in their lives or their menial little problems. Not outside of the cases anyway. Then he'd met John…and everything had changed. He had changed and now he didn't want to change back. Hell, Sherlock wasn't even sure that he_ could _go back._

 _His head fell backward, landing on the back of the chair as he slumped down. 'Oh dear God', the things he'd done to John over the years. The loss of the man's wife was simply the most recent consequence of the doctor's friendship with Sherlock. So maybe it was best if Sherlock just let things play out the way destiny had intended, not that he bought into that sort of thing, but perhaps there was a way to repay the debt of Mary's life?_

 _If by giving up his own life, Sherlock could give any measure of peace to John Watson, then it was worth it. He wasn't there yet, but he was close. He could feel his body giving up as whatever had been damaged inside him deteriorated slowly. It was all distant and happening in the real world, but he was aware of the changes._

 _Sherlock didn't know if he'd done enough to save John or not, which meant that he couldn't slip away into the oblivion of his mind, not yet. Not until he knew. He had a promise to keep._

" _Damn right you do." Mary's voice sent a shiver down Sherlock's spine as he lifted pained eyes to meet the half-smile on her face. Considering she was dead, she looked to be doing remarkably well._

" _Mary?" Her name rolled of his lips in surprise even as his eyes softened at the mere sight of her. "What are you doing here?"_

" _Well, it is your subconscious, chances are solid that I'm here because you need someone to talk to." Her eyes crinkled in support. "And you don't believe you deserve to ask John. That about right?"_

 _Sherlock didn't immediately answer her. He couldn't. Because just like the real Mary; the one in his head was spot on. And that was more than a bit scary. He finally sighed and allowed his legs to slip to the floor, his strength was draining away. "I'm not sure what you want me to say." He said evenly._

 _Mary smiled. "It is your head Sherlock, so if you're not sure…what chance do I have of figuring it out?"_

" _Then what is the use of you?" He couldn't stop the bitter response. He wanted…no_ needed _someone to tell him everything was going to be okay. He couldn't trust his own deductions regarding the current situation he now found himself in. And if Sherlock was honest with himself, he knew that he wanted it to be John, but that wasn't happening any time soon._

 _The smile slipped from her face and she folded her arms in irritation. It was a classic 'Mary' pose. "Oh do stop feeling sorry for yourself. I'm the one that's dead."_

 _He sputtered a few times before he finally responded, "Well, you wouldn't be, if you had thought about Rosie and John and 'not' stepped in front of a bullet meant for me." He hadn't meant to be quite so honest, yet it was how he was feeling._

" _And you think that would make everything alright? Your death instead of mine?" Mary allowed a long low breath to slip between her lips as she moved to sink into John's chair. The room seemed to darken somewhat, the fire under the mantle dimmed and blinked out as Sherlock's mood was reflected inside his mind palace version of 221B. Slowly rain began to drip along the panes of glass on the windows. Her face shifted to serious and her green gaze now bore into Sherlock's pale face as she leaned forward for emphasis. "You did not see him, Sherlock. You did not see John when he thought you were dead. For two years he was a shell of the person he is today. I would not see him returned to that."_

 _His gaze drifted toward his feet. Sherlock could not meet the intensity of her as she continued to stare at him. "And you didn't see him in the aquarium." The memory of the god-awful sound that had erupted from John had Sherlock wiping his hand over his face in an effort to forget. His voice shook as he continued. "I did that to him."_

 _She shook her head. "No, I did that to him. I am the one that was an assassin, not you." Her blonde head tilted to the side and she narrowed her eyes. "You did push a bit hard for a confession. So to some extent, you are also responsible. But you did not kill me."_

 _Sherlock couldn't stop the shiver of regret that had his body trembling as she spoke. "John believes I did." A quiver in his usually steady baritone was a stark reminder of the unfamiliar emotions threatening to undo him. "He told me and I cannot change what I did…or how he feels."_

" _John is ruled by his emotions, Sherlock. He is angry and hurt. Deep down he knows this wasn't your fault. It was mine. I chose to step in front of that bullet. And I would do it again." Her harsh voice softened, "Because you are worth saving." Mary lifted herself up off the red floral chair rolled her shoulders._

221B 221B

Culverton watched as John and the elder Holmes stepped from Sherlock's room and he pressed his lips together in anticipation. All he had to do was bide his time until the consulting detective woke up. Until then? Culverton would have to tide himself over simply watching the dark-haired man sleep.

Whatever medical care the younger Holmes brother needed, he would get. Because the billionaire had no intention of killing a man that didn't know he was _being killed_. What was the point of that? Watching them realize that they were helpless to stop their own death was part of the allure of murder. And it wasn't very fun to confess to a man that can't respond to his revelations about his addiction and his brilliant solution to controlling it.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _I know it's angsty, but that is what I felt was missing from this episode. The realizations of what they each stood to lose and the desperation of both John and Sherlock to recover it. Would love some reviews…thank you._


	3. Comatose

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 3**

 _Comatose_

The hospital was quiet…quiet in a way that only a healing institution can be at two in the morning. The patients were all sleeping, or watching their small televisions with the volume turned down low. The smell of cleaning agents and antiseptic was strong and sent a shiver through the former army doctor as he walked.

John tipped back the black coffee and swallowed the tepid liquid. It wasn't the worst he'd ever had, but he certainly wouldn't be investing in another cup. Maybe he could slip into the nurse's lounge and smuggle a cup out of there? The coffee was always better in the staff lounges and the nurse's was better than the stuff in the doctor's lounge, so yeah…

He walked back toward Sherlock's room, his eyes meandering along the dimly lit corridor as he moved. Generic pictures hung on the white-washed walls as a constant reminder of the revolving door. People coming in, people going out…at all hours of the day and on every day of the year that was the life of a hospital. Nothing in a hospital was warm and inviting, it was sterile and clinical.

When he'd been training as a doctor, it had been an odd sort of thing. John had been somewhat affected by that when he was younger. Knowing that he, as a doctor, was an integral part of healing broken things and that he would never know how it turned out once they left the hospital. It had been a bit of a learning curve. John's own family had been anything but warm, but he found he to learn to separate himself from his skills as a doctor.

The day that he'd met Sherlock's parents had driven home just how different he and the detective really were. Caring and supportive parents had raised the self-proclaimed socio-path and it had allowed him to remain receptive to his mother's concerns that day at Baker Street. It had also shown John that Sherlock was not what he claimed. He cared so deeply for the people he allowed into his life…the ones that mattered to him anyway.

It had taken a long time to come to terms with the fact he hadn't initially placed John in that group. At least all the evidence the doctor had seen had pointed in that direction, as far as he was concerned. But their lives were messy and eventually the doctor had seen, in no uncertain terms, just how much he meant to Sherlock. But every now and then the disappointment and despair he'd felt so often during those two years would rise up to the surface and pummel John between the eyes.

And then this had happened…

His stomach twisted painfully and he stopped to lean against the wall, gathering both his strength and his thoughts. There had been no improvement in Sherlock's condition. He was still in a coma; his brain activity was being constantly monitored along with his other vital signs. The only positive sign at this time was that Sherlock was still breathing without the intervention of a ventilator. That may not sound like much, but it was a very good sign. And the only one they'd had so far.

The monitor that was tracking the consulting detective's neural activity was showing reduced electrical impulses between the essential functions of the cells, which could be a major concern.

John wasn't highly proficient in the inner workings of the brain. He knew about the functions and the neural pathways. He understood how fragile they were and how any disruption could create potential problems for the patient when they awoke from a coma.

In Sherlock's case the reduced functioning appeared to be confined to the occipital lobe and Dr. Huran wasn't confident that there wouldn't be complications later. John wasn't all that confident himself. The problem with the occipital lobe was that it was the center for visual sensation and interpretation in the brain…not a good place to have disruption of any kind. But this wasn't the only problem facing the unconscious man.

John had seen the results of Sherlock's physical evaluation and they weren't promising. The failing kidneys weren't the only thing his body was trying to repair. Sherlock had several broken and separated ribs…this was surely because of John's violent actions inside the morgue. Knowing that he was, in part, responsible for whatever Sherlock's condition would be when he woke up was sheer anguish for the doctor. Would the younger Holmes be in this incredibly severe condition without John's beating? It was difficult to say.

John shook himself from the damning and reflective thoughts before continuing his move back toward Sherlock's room. Mycroft had been called back to the office, leaving only John to keep a wary eye on Sherlock. The guard was there, but the blogger wasn't about to trust Sherlock's fate to a man he didn't know.

But watching the unconscious form of his best friend was difficult. John knew he wasn't sleeping and that Sherlock's presence inside the hospital was due, at least in part, to his desire to help the grieving widower.

John slowly pushed the door open after nodding at the guard and slipped inside the darkened room. A backlit wall, one that was unlike anything John had ever seen in a hospital, illuminated Sherlock's room. It resembled a hotel room more than a hospital room. He supposed that must be the influence of the eccentric billionaire that had funded the wing Sherlock was now housed in. That thought pulled John's attention around to the man that had brought him back into Sherlock's slowly collapsing world.

Culverton Smith was one of the richest men in the world, not just in Britain. He had done loads of charity work and spent a lot of time offering support and resources to the hospitals throughout Great Britain. He was a man that lived his life in the limelight and appeared to love every minute of it. Other than that, John didn't know all that much about the man. But the way that he had handled the dead body in the morgue had been disturbing and had started to reflect the accusations that Sherlock had made against him…at least in John's opinion.

Typically, it wasn't normal for a person, who did not deal with death regularly, to be so cavalier about a corpse. But not only had death not bothered Culverton, he'd been almost jovial about it.

And the way he'd outlined Sherlock's declining condition, painting him as the delusional junkie, had made perfect sense to the doctor. He'd listened and watched the man he considered to be his best friend in the world spiral out of control as the drugs destroyed his brilliant mind; and it had been terrifying. But hearing the eccentric man explain it had made it all so much worse, because what he was saying made far more sense than what Sherlock wanted John to believe.

And then there had been the scalpel. That tiny piece of stainless steel metal that had set off John's rampage against the declining detective's faltering body. The haze of red-tinged haze that overtaken John's senses had been uncontrollable. And now as he stood in the hospital, fully understanding why Sherlock had done what he'd done John did not feel a sense of peace or justification for his reaction. Had he saved Culverton Smith's life? Perhaps, but he may have lost his friend in the process…

The methodical beeping of the heart rate monitor gave him some comfort. He finally pulled the small chair closer to the bed and allowed his tired muscles to collapse into it. He hadn't been sleeping well and it had nothing to do with the small child he was now solely responsible for. Rosie had been staying with Molly. _Thank God for Molly and Mrs. Hudson, without them I would be truly lost._ He thought silently.

It wasn't that John could not care for his daughter, more that sometimes he couldn't cope with the losses in his life. And that little girl didn't deserve to be on the receiving end of either his temper or his grief.

He would never hurt a child, so it wasn't that kind of thing, but he was likely to be less affectionate and Rosie needed that type of interaction at this stage in her development. John knew from first-hand experience what could happen when a child grows up with an indifferent parent. Or worse, a parent that couldn't control their temper and the innocent child offers an easy target. He had sworn that he would never be the type of father that his dad had been to him.

John leaned back and scrubbed his hands over his face, the taught tension inside him needed to go somewhere. He ruffled his own hair and then blinked slowly when he realized it was something that Sherlock did when he was frustrated. His gaze dropped to the multi-colored face below him and he groaned at the sight.

"How did we get here, Sherlock?" he didn't expect an answer. He just needed to talk to someone, normally that would have been Mary, but she obviously wasn't an option. So an unconscious Holmes was the next best thing.

Generally speaking, he and Sherlock didn't have the type of relationship where they revealed deep dark secrets to one another. It was more of an understanding that they both had deep chasms of pain, but didn't feel the need to communicate it openly. On a few occasions things had spiraled out of control to the point where they had had to have those types of conversations, but it was quite rare and never fun.

Baskerville had been one of those times. Watching Sherlock lose control as he was overcome by something he couldn't quantify or qualify had been unnerving for John.

It had also been the first time that the doctor had realized that this man…this incredibly brilliant friend of his was also…human. For Sherlock to have experienced fear of that magnitude he would have to feel more deeply than a normal person. But it had been more than that; it had revealed a weakness in the armor surrounding the consulting detective. The next morning when Sherlock had come looking for him in the graveyard, John had seen a side of the posh git that was new, even to him.

Sherlock had been nervous. His hand shoved deep into the giant pockets of his Belstaff and his eyes searching for some hint of forgiveness. It had been blatantly obvious to John when Sherlock had tried, and failed, to lighten the situation with humor. The doctor had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's verbal abuse in the past and he could usually let it roll of his back, this time was different.

It had been the dark-haired man's comment about not having any friends that had cut John to the quick. He had thought they were friends, and to have Sherlock lash out and claim that they were not had been bloody awful. There just weren't that many people in the doctor's life that he endowed with that title and it had been painful to have it thrown back in his face in such a cavalier manner.

And then the next morning Sherlock had shown up and tried to laugh his way out of it. That was never going to happen. John wasn't ready to simply forgive the detective for his easy dismissal of their friendship. But when the pale man had pulled him round and explained _what_ had caused his _breakdown_ the night before, John found himself softening, if only a little at first. However, he wasn't going to let Sherlock get away with it completely, so he'd started to walk away.

Hearing Sherlock's normally deep and confident baritone admit that he didn't have _friends_ , plural…had been somewhat heartbreaking. _"I don't have friends…I've just got one."_ It had been one of, if the not the most personally reflective statements the consulting detective had ever uttered.

That had been the first time that John had felt as though he was getting through the thick wall of indifference that Sherlock surrounded himself in. This defense mechanism wasn't the result of not caring, it was a protective barrier to keep himself from getting too attached to anyone. It had taken John quite a long time to realize that.

The last time had been after Sherlock had reappeared after his supposed death. Even then it had taken both of them nearly being blown to bits by the largest carriage bomb in the history of London to fill the cracks in their friendship. Standing inside that car watching as Sherlock failed to disarm the bomb and the shocking realization that he was going to die had been sobering for John. Suddenly being angry about something he had _wished desperately for_ seemed…well, it seemed stupid.

But it was more than that. John had wanted to tell Sherlock why he'd been so hurt by his friend's betrayal of his trust. Why it had been so devastating to think that their friendship had been so one-sided. And yet all he'd been able to conjure up had been the truth. _"You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known…"_ It had been the honest to god truth. It still was.

John's deep blue eyes dropped to the still form in front of him and his shoulders slumped. "I don't know what to say to you." He said softly.

221B 221B

 _The room continued to lose light as Sherlock's mood shifted into darker and darker territory. He was staring at the dark empty space Mary had occupied, his hands steepled beneath his chin as he considered her words. She had told him exactly what he had wanted to hear. He supposed this was to be expected since she was, after all, an extension of his own subconscious mind. But it didn't make hearing it any less comforting. His gaze shifted around and he frowned at what he saw…or more accurately what he did not see._

 _He did not understand the loss of light inside his mind palace. He normally had complete control of this place and yet he wasn't the one controlling the dissipation of illumination at this moment. Something was happening to his transport in the real world and it was being reflected inside this place._

 _He held his hand up in front of his face and then pressed his lips together in irritation. He could barely make out the solid outline of his fingers and they were less than a foot from his face. "What is happening to me?" he grumbled._

" _Something bad, I presume." Mycroft said as he appeared just inside the door of the living room. Sherlock lifted his eyes, but he was unable to actually see his brother._

" _Mycroft? Can you put on another light?"_

 _Mycroft flicked something, but no additional light filtered into the room. Sherlock had heard him flip the switch, so where was the light? "Did you do it?" he continued, a slight quaver to his voice._

 _He heard the irritated breath of his older brother. "Yes. But it doesn't seem to be functioning."_

" _What does that mean?" Never in all the years that Sherlock had used the mind palace technique had there been a glitch like this. He should be able to control the environment inside with ease. And yet, he was sitting in almost complete darkness. "Mycroft?"_

" _Yes, Sherlock?" his brother's voice was soft and filled with concern, which was odd for the man that ran the whole of England from a stuffy cement enforced office._

" _Can you see me?" he really hoped that his instincts were wrong on this account._

 _There was a long slow intake of breath and then the sound of someone sitting down on crisp fabric. The smell of Mycroft's cologne was familiar and would have been comforting under other circumstances. Only the outline of his older brother's form was recognizable, the light behind him created an aura-like effect that Sherlock could barely see._

" _Mycroft…" he questioned again. The child-like way he called his brother's name finally compelled Mycroft to answer him in a soft, regretful tone._

" _Yes, Sherlock. The room is lit up like Christmas at mummy's house."_

 _Sherlock sat back against the chair seeking the stability it offered as his entire world narrowed down to that one sentence. "What is happening to me?" He inhaled slowly hoping to slow the rapid beating of his heart. "Out there, I mean…"_

" _Perhaps it is time for you to wake up and find out, Sherlock. I believe you have the answers you were seeking. So go back and deal with the consequences."_

 _TBC…_

 **Author's Note** : _So this got a little more complicated than I thought it when I started writing it. I had only intended it to be a bit of tag to the episode, but it has now jumped off into a story world of it's own. Would love some reviews…thank you._


	4. Darkness Falls

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 4**

 _Darkness Falls_

The day had passed in relative silence. The former army doctor had spent much of his time simply trying to stay out of the way of other medical professionals. His aching back and eyes were starting to take a toll on his ability to simply stand silently in a corner.

John watched as yet another doctor checked over Sherlock's current condition. It appeared that his vitals were holding stable, though his brain scans were still showing reduced activity. Even with John's limited understanding of neuropathology, he knew that this wasn't a good thing.

The nurse carefully drew more blood before quietly stepping from the room and eventually leaving John alone with the silent figure in the bed. He needed to go home and take a shower, but he couldn't quite bring himself to think of actually leaving, not even for the time it would take to catch those five minutes under a hot water spray. Because he knew that if he wasn't in the room when Sherlock woke up, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. And John already had too much guilt resting on his tired shoulders.

So he chose to sit, watch, and wait. Keeping silent vigil over his friend with the hope that Sherlock would regain consciousness soon. Because they had a lot to discuss and John didn't want to have this conversation with a sleeping Sherlock…he wanted the real thing. He was so engrossed in his internal debate that he missed the soft knock on the doorframe.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson's soft query had him lifting his gaze toward the doorway. She was wearing one of her favorite dresses and it looked like she'd recently had her hair styled. Leave it to her to go out and get dressed up just to come see Sherlock. The kind smile she presented was like a dagger to his heart, John watched resolutely as she shuffled into the room, settling on the end of Sherlock's bed. Her worried gaze shifting between the doctor and the detective, assessing the two men. "Any change?"

He shook his head. John couldn't bring himself to look over at her again as she stared silently at the bruises littering Sherlock's face. Deep down he knew that she had put his involvement in the consulting detective's current condition into context. She knew what had happened. Mrs. Hudson had a way of seeing things that many people thought were hidden from the world. In that way she was bit like Sherlock, only with the ability to read people instead of visual facts. In all the time that John had known her, he'd never had a reason to feel ashamed in her presence…he did now, and it felt bloody awful.

She sighed pointedly and then turned her full attention on him. "Did it make you feel better?" she asked softly. There was no judgment in her voice, just her _not-so_ simple question, because John didn't have an answer for her, not a real one. He averted his eyes before shaking his head. "No. I thought it would…but…no." he picked absently at the edge of the white blanket near Sherlock's hands. His eyebrows crinkled in distress at the distressingly still hands of a man that was movement and gesticulation. Sherlock was rarely still and when he was it was for good reason.

There was a soft huff of air and then she shifted so that she could see him more clearly. He could tell that he wasn't going to like whatever she was about to say.

"John, he has been killing himself trying to get your attention. How could you not see that?" She shook her head in disappointment when he failed to meet her intense gaze. "Oh, that's right, you cut him out of your and Rosie's lives, didn't you?" The edge to her words cut him deeply as he listened.

His blue eyes flashed up and his eyebrows cut down in an automatic response. "I couldn't be around him. All I could see…was her _absence_." His voice faltered and he swallowed thickly. "And his responsibility in that."

Mrs. Hudson raised an eyebrow at that before her eyes shifted to the bruised unconscious form of the consulting detective. "And now?"

Several emotions flitted across John's face. He wasn't entirely sure how he felt now; he only knew that he no longer blamed Sherlock for Mary's death. "I don't honestly know."

"That might be the best thing you could have said." She responded with a slight smile and soft clap of her hands. It was something she did when she was please with the direction of a particularly difficult conversation.

"Why?" he asked, a little uncertain if he actually wanted an answer.

She shrugged. "Because it means you're actually thinking about this whole thing instead of simply reacting to it."

John's gaze flicked over to Sherlock's unconscious form. "Little bit late for that piece of advice."

"Better late than never, that's what I always say." She shrugged simply before patting him on the shoulder and turning to leave the room. "He'll pull through John. He always does."

The doctor blinked several times before he finally shook his head in resignation and moved to stand next to the small window. Night had fallen in a dusky swirl of colors and a light misty rain that signaled the changing of the seasons. John stared out and wondered if his life would ever get back to where it had been several months before all this _tragedy_ had torn it apart. He certainly hoped so.

A low sigh slipped between his lips before he moved back and settled into the uncomfortable chair next to Sherlock's bed. The steady beeping of the monitors was the only thing he could hear inside the room. The strangely illuminated back wall offered a soft glow and he could feel his eyelids growing heavy.

The creak of the door as it was pushed opened caused John to frown. He raised an eyebrow when Culverton Smith stepped into the room. His eyes were glued on Sherlock's unconscious form. The short portly man pulled his lower lip between his teeth in a way that sent a chill of disgust racing down John's spine.

The man was so intent on his prey that he didn't even notice the doctor sitting, half hidden, in the darkened corner. But John saw the predatory expression on the billionaire's face as his hands clenched and unclenched in anticipation of something only he was aware of. It was like someone had let the fox into the henhouse and he was just biding his time until he attacked.

It was also the first time that John was absolutely certain that Sherlock had been right. Standing right in front of him was one of the only men that could make the consulting detective nervous and considering who Sherlock had dealt with over his career, that was more than a bit scary.

"Can I help you, Mr. Smith?" He finally couldn't stand the man's presence any longer and he wanted him away from Sherlock.

Culverton's head snapped up and his face shifted to a more congenial expression when he finally saw John sitting in the corner. "Oh, Dr. Watson, I didn't realize you were visiting." His eyes drifted back to the unmoving detective, there was a hunger there was more than a bit distressing to the doctor. "I wanted to see that Mr. Holmes was getting the best care."

John narrowed his eyes. "That's very nice of you. Do you do that for all the patients in your hospital?" He knew the answer to the question, but he was curious how the man would spin it.

"No. But Sherlock Holmes isn't just any patient, now is he…?" he took a step closer to the bed causing John to stand up and move closer in a protective gesture that was not lost on the billionaire. "Of the two of us inside this room, which one of us do you think is more dangerous to Sherlock Holmes? Me or the man that beat him until his brain started to bleed?"

John's gut twisted at the truth in the man's words. But he stood his ground, regardless of whether or not he had any right to. "I don't believe you want me to answer that question." He struggled to keep the true nature of his feelings on the subject hidden from the other man.

A sadistic smile slipped onto Culverton's face and he laughed. "If you really thought that, why did you trounce him in order to save me?"

The air in the room seemed to drop twenty degrees as John straightened his back and rolled his shoulders as he gathered his emotions into a tighter ball. "I'm wondering that same thing." He answered tightly.

The smarmy little man tilted his head to the side and snorted in derision as his eyes shifted over Sherlock and then shifted back up to meet John's intense stare. "I do hope he recovers soon. Waiting can be murder."

With that final statement he swept out of the room and John allowed his breath to escape in a huff of anger before he collapsed into the chair. He was fairly certain that taunting a serial killer was not one of his better ideas. But the way the man had been looking at Sherlock…it had been evil incarnate. _Guess I'm not getting that shower any time soon._

 _221B 221B_

 _Sherlock felt his way along the rough wall that separated the living room and the kitchen. Not for the first time he was grateful for his memory of where things were located inside 221B. The light had dropped to such a low level that it was making it nearly impossible for him to see anything in the flat. He had a tendril of fear picking at his brain, a fear that was telling him this was something bigger than just a failure in his mind palace._

" _All I wanted was a cup of tea." He groused as he made his way back to his leather chair. Pain lurched up his left shin as he scuffed it against the edge of the table. "Bloody hell." He reached down and ran his hands over the offended limb several times before finally making to the chair. He dropped down into the relative safety of the leather and groaned as pain shot up his side._

 _He'd gotten pretty good at ignoring the pain that continually radiated along his ribs, but he still hadn't figured out the answer to the loss of light. The one person that he wanted to talk to was the one person he was certain did not want to talk to him. And as much as he ached to speak with John, he didn't think he could handle another rejection from the doctor…real or imagined. The morgue had been traumatizing on several levels and only one of them had to do with Sherlock getting his ass pummeled by the doctor. John had 'wanted' to hurt him. He'd been bursting at the seams with anger and rage and it finally found an outlet. But that hadn't been the worst part._

 _No, the most devastating moment had been when John had agreed when Sherlock admitted to killing his wife. A miniscule part of him had hoped that John would argue with his statement, but the profound anger on the doctor's face had shattered that small hope. And yes, Mary had told the consulting detective that he wasn't actually responsible, but that was only his own mind trying to make things better. Sherlock knew that John would not be so ready to forgive and he would certainly never forget what had happened in the aquarium._

" _You really thought it would be that easy? Apologize and you would just go back the way things were?" Sherlock's head snapped toward the rumble of a new voice. One that he had thought he would never hear again. Jim Moriarty… "It's a bit dark in here, don't you think?"_

 _Sherlock bit back the anger and instead schooled his baritone to one of indifference. He must be truly out of sorts with the world if he'd allowed that maniac to roam free inside his mind palace. "What are you doing up here?"_

 _A huff, "I get tired of the basement, Sherlock. No one ever bothers me down there. I get lonely." There was a shuffle of shoes on wood as Moriarty moved his position; Sherlock's head followed the shifting sounds trying to keep track of exactly where the man stood in relation to him. "Besides, I was curious..."_

" _Curious? Curious about what?" Sherlock continued to listen carefully as the consulting criminal continued to move about the flat with a familiarity that disturbed Sherlock._

" _About the absence of a certain doctor. He's always shuffling around this place. Where is he now?" The clink of a glass turned Sherlock's pale gaze toward the couch. Apparently Moriarty was making himself comfortable with the decanter._

 _He bristled at the tone as much as the question. "John's been busy. He is new a father, after all."_

 _There was a brief silence and then suddenly a hand grabbed Sherlock by the throat. His arms flailed as he tried to grab onto man that was now trying to choke the breath from him. There was a burning sensation in his throat and then pain blossomed behind his eyes. It felt like an icepick was being shoved into his brain. The muscles in his back arched as Moriarty's grip tightened. "I asked a simple question. All I wanted was a simple 'civil' answer."_

 _Sherlock gagged as his awareness spiraled down to just surviving this heated encounter. The fact that it was all happening inside his head wouldn't save him. "You're in a coma, Sherlock. You can't wake up from this."_

 _The new information was useless in his current state. He knew now that there was no escaping whatever was happening to his transport, but he needed to wake up. With the last bit of strength he possessed, Sherlock threw himself to the side landing hard against the wooden table, the one that sat next to his chair. It was enough to throw Moriarty off him allowing Sherlock to heave in a few precious breaths before he hauled himself upright and scrambled toward the window._

 _The only way he knew to wake up, was to fall…_

 _He wasn't entirely sure where he was going, but his memory, if it was correct, placed the window five steps behind his chair. Without thinking about the consequences, Sherlock threw himself at the general area where the window should be located. He felt the glass panes give beneath his weight and the fiery slicing pain that washed along his side reminded him that he hadn't been one hundred percent before he'd jumped. Probably wasn't going to be a good thing when he did finally manage to wake up._

 _The wind whipped through his curly hair and the part of him that was still connected to reality wondered why it was taking him so long to either hit the ground or wake up._

 _221B 221B_

Five hours later…

John felt something move against his hair, he surged up from where he'd been sleeping and blinked rapidly. He wasn't even sure when he'd fallen asleep, but he obviously had. He scrubbed his hand down his face as he waited for his eyes to adjust. It was still dark outside. So he hadn't been asleep for long.

"John?" It was the last voice he'd thought he'd hear and the one that he wanted to hear most in the world. The low baritone was soft and questioning and stole the doctor's words as he struggled to respond. He had been lying on the bed near Sherlock's shoulder, obviously he hadn't meant to fall asleep there…people would talk.

He sat back and stared down at the man lying quietly in the bed. Sherlock was indeed awake, but he was staring straight ahead at the illuminated wall. He was not looking over where John was sitting. At least that's what appeared to be happening; it was just dark enough in the room that he couldn't be sure.

"Sherlock?" he swallowed the thick ball of emotion that threatened to silence him and allowed his eyes to drift along the bed. The blanket had settled around Sherlock's hips like he'd been shifting for a while. "How do you feel?"

The consulting detective's eyes darted over to where John was sitting. But they never connected with the dark blue of the doctor's gaze. "John…are the lights on?"

"Sorry?" he asked. He looked around the low light in the room and while it wasn't bright or anything, there was enough illumination that Sherlock should be able to make out where John was sitting at the very least.

"The lights, in the room…are they on?" A tremor vibrated through his baritone as he repeated his question. His hands clenched the blanket in a white-knuckled grip that was out of character for the generally calm detective.

"Uh, yeah. Yeah the lights on." He took a breath before he continued, his stomach was twisting again as he considered what this new complication might mean. "Why?"

Sherlock's hands shook slightly as he lifted them in front of his wandering eyes. The myriad of emotions racing across his face was so uncharacteristic of the consulting detective that John wasn't sure exactly what he was seeing. "I can't see anything."

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _So this got a lot more complicated than I'd initially set out to write. But it is what it is…and now it's out there and must be written. Leave a review if you have a minute…thank you._


	5. Explanations and Apologies

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** **LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE** …

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 5**

 _Explanations and Apologies_

Simply smelling the antiseptic, immediately alerted Sherlock to his current location. He was in hospital. That wasn't a normal place for him to wind up; generally he was able to take care of any medical issues with the help of John. Although this time, it appeared as though John was the cause for his current admission to the medical institution. The constant twinge of pain in his ribs reminded him of the beating he'd taken; the one that had landed him here.

And he was blind…apparently. Frustration and anger didn't even begin to describe how he was feeling. The problem was; who was he angry at? Yes, balance of probability placed the culpability of his current condition on John's shoulders. But was it _really_ John's fault? Well, that depended on how one looked at the situation. It was Sherlock's fault that he'd been 'off his tits' on drugs, but it had been to try and help John. He hadn't had any real desire to use as long as he had a steady flow of cases and John in his life.

The incident on the airplane as Mycroft had shipped him off for MI-6 had been the only serious regression he'd had. But to be fair, Sherlock had thought he head out to die anyway, so what did it really matter if he was sober. And then…he'd woken up to staring at three disappointed sets of eyes and he'd actually felt something uncomfortable in his gut.

He hadn't had any time to consider his newfound _condition_. Once he'd understood that there was a serious physical problem, Sherlock had pulled back from the emotional responses begging to be unleashed. And he wasn't the only one. As soon as John had realized that there was a severe complication associated with Sherlock's condition, he had rushed from the room looking for the assigned doctors.

But that hadn't stopped the consulting detective's incredibly fast, though damaged, brain from assessing the situation he now found himself in. If this wasn't just a temporary problem, he was quite literally screwed. How could he continue on without his eyesight? Everything that Sherlock _was_ , depended on his ability to see the things other people missed. No one had ever heard of a _blind_ detective, consulting or otherwise. Now he would be lucky if he ever saw anything again. Before he could slip too far into self-pity, he heard the door open and close. "John?" he called out.

There was a brief halting step and then, "Yeah, it's me. Dr. Huran is on his way and he's bringing a neurosurgeon with him." He must have moved closer to the bed, because his voice increased incrementally as he explained. There was a slow intake of breath that seemed to echo through the room and Sherlock knew he was being stared at.

He sighed. He was barely holding it together without knowing what the other man was likely going through. So he decided to try and defuse the situation, "I'm going to be fine, John. Stop staring at me."

The slight hitch in the doctor's breathing reinforced that his deduction had been correct. He wasn't sure if he actually believed his own words, but he had no choice but to say this to John. Because as likely as it was that Sherlock's condition was a direct result of the doctor's violent outburst, he could not bring himself to add more guilt. He could do at least this much for his friend.

"How did you…oh, never mind." John answered with resignation, but he did not move. Which meant that he was still staring at Sherlock…

"John—" his next words were cut off by the arrival of the doctor and the specialist. He stilled his clenching hands and prepared to hear the medical explanation for his condition. But nothing can really prepare a person to hear these things.

Sherlock listened as his current condition was explained in detail. The bleed in his brain had had two different origin points, one located in the occipital lobe, which had been dealt with and shouldn't trouble him further. Though that was only a guess at this point, more tests were needed to verify this. And a second bleed that had been small enough that had been no way to detect it until he had woken up.

This second small bleed had created a tiny cot that had eventually settled against the ocular nerve and was the culprit of his current blindness. It could be relieved with surgery, but because of his recent drug use, the doctors felt it was best to wait for several weeks. Give his body time to heal. Otherwise Sherlock was at increased risk of having a stroke on the table, or another complication that could render him blind indefinitely.

He could hear John's breathing increase with each in-depth description of his current condition. But for him, it was almost like an out of body experience. He was listening and he certainly understood the diagnosis, but he wasn't reacting to anything. He couldn't. The implications of this were terrifying. In trying to save the one person on this planet that understood him, Sherlock had lost the one thing that meant anything to him…the ability to use his mind.

After what felt like forever, the two doctors finally moved to exit the room and Sherlock was free to contemplate what he'd learned. His mind couldn't quite wrap itself around the revelation.

"Oh God…" John muttered as he sank bonelessly into a chair, the rustle of his coat gave away his movements. His hands slapped against his thighs and Sherlock listened for any further clues as to John's reaction. One of them should be having a _reaction_. And since he seemed unable to do so, John's would have to do.

"Sherlock…I…uh…Jesus I am..." He didn't know what to say, the words tumbled past his lips and he swallowed several times to try and control the emotions welling up inside him. He couldn't even look at Sherlock. The memory of his flesh smashing into the incapacitated man's face was playing like Technicolor inside his head.

The consulting detective knew that the doctor was anticipating what he assumed would be Sherlock's immediate reaction to the devastating news. But he couldn't allow _those_ emotions to surface, Sherlock knew he couldn't control them yet and unleashing them would damage the tiny bridge that now existed over the chasm that currently separated them.

A hitched intake of breath was all that the consulting detective could manage. Internally he was writhing like a dying thing. He heard John shift his position and when the doctor reached over and touched his hand, he couldn't help his unconscious response.

Sherlock jerked his hand away and then immediately regretted it when his side lit up in piercing pricks of pain. He groaned without meaning to. His transport was in worse condition than he'd anticipated. He had known that the drugs would cause damage to his kidneys and other organs. But Sherlock had been certain that he would be able to control himself enough to keep from over-dosing. He had learned the hard way that he had _not_ been that strong. He had fallen victim to his addiction in a way that he hadn't since he was young.

"Sorry…I wasn't thinking." John stammered. "Please, I need you to say something. Yell. Rage at me. Anything." It was as close to begging as the detective had ever heard him get.

Sherlock could almost feel the pain and regret coloring his friend's voice. But what did one say to the person that had possibly blinded them for life? Those were answers he did not have, and he did not have the strength to lie. "I'm tired." He finally muttered softly. If their positions were reversed he knew that that response would have broken him, but John was going to have to be stronger than that. At least for a bit.

"Right. Yeah, sorry. You should..." John's tone shifted and Sherlock heard him move away from the bed, unconsciously created distance between them, which was the last thing Sherlock wanted. "I'll just let you get some rest." His feet shuffled toward the door.

"John. Stay?" Sherlock's whispered question stopped him in his tracks.

John took a surprised breath, "Yeah, sure." Again his location in the room changed as he walked back to the chair by the bed and sank into it. Sherlock didn't say anything else and his breathing evened out as he slipped away from the conscious world.

221B 221B

" _Now you see. Or more appropriately, you don't." Moriarty's taunt was the first thing Sherlock heard when he awoke back in his mind palace. It wasn't in the room with him, more like an omnipotent voice floating through the air, inescapable._

 _Apparently, every time he fell asleep he was going to end up here. That was reason enough to avoid the act. But the question was really why couldn't he control it? His entire life had been about control and now he felt like he had none. Not even inside his own mind. There was every possibility that this was a reflection of what was happening to him in the real world. This feeling of spiraling out of control…_

 _The smell was wrong for 221B. Which meant that he was likely somewhere he used more as storage than for contemplation. Over the course of his lifetime he had built this 'palace' into a vast collection of rooms. Some of them he hadn't been in for years. He hadn't had a reason to. On occasion he would go through the rooms and delete useless information._

 _At one point he must have gone through all the rooms associated with primary and secondary school. Because, according to John, he was missing information that a child should know. Although, why would a child care the reason the sky is blue?_

 _The fact that he couldn't see was making figuring out where he was a bit of challenge. More than that, he had no idea what was in this room and with Moriarty roaming freely around this place; he was more than a bit concerned by that._

 _Sherlock slowly pulled himself up onto his knees and felt his way across the floor. He found it odd that he still wanted to blink despite the fact that he couldn't see a damn thing. It was not tile or carpet. So that put him in one of the areas he did not frequent._

 _The floor was rough and wooden, which told Sherlock he was in one of the oldest parts of his mind palace. He hadn't ventured into these spaces for many years. And now, as he slowly pushed himself up onto his hands and knees, he remembered why he'd changed the structure of his memories. Childhood had been an unpleasant experience and had not yielded the emotional support he had craved. He had not been popular in school. Even his teachers had disliked him. He had been too vocal about the things he noticed and they had been too embarrassed by them. So he'd spent much of that time alone with his books and his experiments._

 _The once clear memory of these experiences was now blurred around the edges; he wasn't sure if this was a literal physical reaction or not, since he couldn't see anything anyways._

" _Are you really going to just lie there on the floor like an invalid?" Mycroft's harsh words were both correct and unwanted. His brother sighed before walking across the wooden floor. He was probably wearing those expensive shoes he loved so much._

 _Sherlock sat back on his heels. "What possible reason could you have for being down here?" The mind palace version of his brother never wandered far from either 221B or the upper library. So to find him this far inside of Sherlock's memories was unprecedented._

" _I think, if you consider that question carefully, you'll answer it without my help." His heels clicked over the floor as he moved. He was probably looking at things Sherlock would rather he didn't. His pressed his lips together in frustration and then shifted._

 _Sherlock grimaced as his ribs protested his currently uncomfortable position. "I think you should go back upstairs."_

 _A loud huff signaled his brother's irritation. "I would love to. But since this is your head, you obviously wanted me here."_

" _I can assure you, I do not." It came out a bit petulant. But frankly, Sherlock didn't care. He was under a great deal of stress and he didn't need his snarky older brother giving him rubbish. Which Mycroft was likely to do, especially since Sherlock couldn't get away from him._

" _It would appear that your subconscious disagrees with you." his brother said in answer to a question that Sherlock had not voiced._

 _Sherlock's black eyebrow went up at that. He considered for a moment before he said, "I have been taking a lot of drugs. Probably not a good idea to listen to my 'subconscious'. It's likely to lie to you." When a sense of vertigo hit him, he decided against getting up and settled back into a seated position, his legs pulled against his chest and his arms wrapped around them. It was a post that anyone that knew him, had seen him take on numerous occasions. It as always when things were spiraling out of control, but only those who knew him best would recognize that._

" _What's new about that, brother mine?" Mycroft asked coolly. He shifted again. "How are you feeling?" His tone warmed slightly._

 _Sherlock could hear the slight worry in his brother's voice and decided to answer the question somewhat honestly. "Fine. Other than the small fact that I can't see a bloody thing. My ribs are exceedingly painful and I have a God-awful headache."_

 _His brother actually chuckled at that. "Well, you did nearly OD on drugs, Sherlock. What did you expect?" The humor leeched from his voice and he took a few steps closer to his younger brother. "And John's—"_

" _Stop." Sherlock said coldly. He turned his head in the direction he'd last heard his brother's voice. "We don't talk about that."_

 _A heavy sigh, "Sherlock, you can't ignore what he did."_

" _Yes, I can." He shot back._

" _No. You can't. If you could, I would not be here… Sherlock, you can control it. At least in here. But you are allowing yourself to be affected by what's happening out there."_

 _Sherlock clenched his teeth and a muscle jumped in his jaw as he struggled to argue with his brother's statement. "I am blind, Mycroft. Not exactly an easy thing to come to terms with." He bit out. "Forgive me if it's taking me a bit to come to terms with it."_

" _And yet, it should not be affecting you in here. So the question, brother mine, is…why have you allowed the outside world to invade your mind?"_

" _I don't know. You tell me." He responded angrily. Mycroft had a way of pulling his obstinate side out. When they had been young, he'd say exactly the opposite of what he knew his brother wanted to hear. It had been a way to get Mycroft's attention and Sherlock had desperately wanted that._

 _His older brother sighed resolutely. "Sherlock, you need to deal with what happened. It not as simple as you just 'forgiving' John. Or yourself. He punished you for something that was out of your control."_

" _But it wasn't."_

" _Yes, Sherlock. It was. And then he left you alone." There was brief pause before he continued. "I am not saying you do not bear some responsibility for what happened. I am saying that John also contributed to the outcome that night…as did Mary."_

 _For the first time in a long time, Sherlock found himself listening to his brother's word like he was reaching for a lifeline. They had dug into him in way that nothing else could have. His hands fell from about his legs and he stretched out, ignoring the muscles that ached in response. "I know that."_

" _You know it, but you do not believe it. You have already been told this by Mary. And yet I am also being called forth to explain this to you. Because if you believed it, you would not be blind in this place. You look, but you cannot see. Until you do, you will remain in darkness, Sherlock."_

 _A spark of irritation erupted in his chest and he surged to his feet. "Do you think I enjoy this?"_

" _No. I'm quite sure you do not."_

" _Then why are you torturing me with all this inane psychobabble?" Inside he was reeling. Was his brother right? Could he control it? Sherlock had always been about the evidence of his own eyes and now they were being taken away from him. He had no idea if it would repair itself or not. If the life he'd worked for was now gone forever…and whether or not he wanted to admit that, it was affecting him. Obviously, Mycroft's presence was evidence enough of that._

 _Sherlock blinked several times and then focused on the room he thought he was in. There was a slight tremor in the room itself and then it slowly started taking focus. Initially there was just snatches of light along the edges of his vision, but eventually it solidified into the tall, if disapproving, figure of his older brother. Mycroft was staring at him, his arms folded over his chest and a tilt to his head. However, there was a bit of smile on his face as he stared at Sherlock._

" _Better?"_

 _He didn't answer as he simply allowed his eyes to roam over the room. It looked like his primary school classroom. Several small wooden desks sat scattered throughout the room. There were no windows, but there was a large blackboard at the front of the room. The wood was a rich mahogany color, but it had started to deteriorate. The lacquer had thinned to the point that there were large splinters peeling away from the wood._

 _Sherlock hauled himself to his feet and ambled over to a shelf on the back wall. Stored on it was all the information that he'd decided wasn't necessary so he'd stacked it away. But there must be a reason why his mind threw him down here. A reason beyond waiting for Mycroft to berate him._

" _Yes. How did you know?" he asked quietly._

 _Mycroft shrugged. "I didn't. You did. Now the question is, how are you doing 'out there'?"_

" _I'm not really sure. Alive…"_

" _Well, that's something."_

 _221B 221B_

The day had dwindled down to nothing more than the last hazy rays of light. The small hospital room was devoid of anyone but John and Sherlock. He'd made the decision to stay here and wait for the injured man to wake up. It wasn't like Sherlock to sleep for long, but it had been hours and the doctor was still waiting. Molly had texted him earlier to see how he was doing and if she should keep Rosie for another night.

He could feel the guilt swirling in his gut and right now it had more to do with the fact that he wasn't with his daughter than Sherlock. The little girl had suffered more than any of them and she would suffer for the rest of her life. He sighed and leaned back against the wall before wiping his hand down his face. Sherlock moaned and shifted causing John to look over at him. It pained him to see the other man lying there looking beaten. Deep down he understood that part of the problem was that he knew how bad this could get. Sherlock hadn't really said anything to him when he'd woken up earlier. And now John didn't know what expect when he finally made his way back toward consciousness.

When he had lost Mary, John had gotten lost in his anger and the guilt of his own actions. He had never told her that he'd cheated on her. It had been close to progressing past the simple texting that it had started as. On the night he'd lost Mary, John had ended it. But he had also started it. He never should have acted on his impulses. His gaze slid over to Sherlock's still form. John rolled his eyes and huffed. His reaction in morgue had also been an inability to control his impulsive rage.

He leaned forward and interlaced his fingers. There was another twitch from the man in the bed and John pulled his lower lip between his teeth before, "Sherlock?"

A light twitch of the consulting detective's right eye alerted the doctor to his impending consciousness. A conversation that he'd had earlier with Sherlock's doctors had indicated that they were considering sending him home within the next few days. His vitals had stabilized and he couldn't stay at the hospital while they waited for his body to heal before the surgery.

His right eyelid slowly split apart and his striking iris stared straight ahead. The swelling of his left eye didn't allow for the same thing, which gave him a strangely asymmetrical look. John watched as Sherlock's pupils dilated, but didn't focus on anything. He shut his own eyes momentarily as he considered what the next steps were. This was his fault. He had no doubt that it had been his actions that had caused the bleed.

The drug use alone would not have created the two different bleeds.

Sherlock's unmistakable baritone interrupted him. "I can hear you breathing, John."

"People tend to do that." He answered without thinking.

The dark-haired man shifted and his face screwed up in pain. "Yes, well—"

"How're you feeling." It was a stupid question and certainly opened him up to distain from the generally unsocial man. A miniscule part of John was hopeful that maybe the pressure on Sherlock's optic nerve had lessened. But watching his blank stare, John had his answer.

"I've been better."

"Yeah, right. So there's been no—"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Change?" he finished.

John nodded.

"No. I still can't see." He pulled in a long slow breath and then grimaced as his ribs stretched. Something in his face shifted and the doctor wondered what he could possibly be working up to. His next request was not what the other man had expected, "John, I just want to go home."

"Given your eyesight, do you think that's a good idea?" he didn't know what Sherlock knew.

Sherlock shook his head. "Correct me if I'm wrong, doctor. But if the bleed is the result of my current physical condition, balance suggests that the doctor's will not want to operate until I'm stronger."

Not for the first time, John was gobsmacked by the other man's ability to interpret a situation. "You're not wrong."

"I rarely am." It was one of the few times that John didn't hear any bravado to ego in Sherlock's comment. He almost sounded…resigned.

"Uh…Sherlock…I was so angry. And I couldn't see past that." He watched the completely neutral expression on the consulting detective's face hoping for some sign that he would be receptive to John's apology. Sherlock gave him nothing. "I didn't think about what…her loss would do…to you. And I am so sorry."

Sherlock listened to the apology with mixed feelings. On the one had he was tremendously happy to hear that they might come back from Mary's death. But he had lost the one thing he that made him unique. It had always been his ability to observe the world around him that had set him apart. And now that may be gone. He wouldn't be able to take care of himself, either financially or personally. The rational part of his brain reminded him that many people were visually impaired and they managed to live very full lives. But none of them were detectives and he had no desire to do anything else with his life.

Plus, what would he have to offer John? The reason their friendship worked was because he could offer the doctor something no one else could, adrenaline and danger. That would no longer be the case. Why would he even choose to stick around? Sherlock would be a constant reminder of what the other man had lost. His stomach twisted painfully and he swallowed the lump that was forming in the back of his throat.

He knew that John was waiting for a response, but what could he say? He nothing left to offer. He heard the doctor shifting around, impatience getting the best of him. "I'm sorry for Mary's death." He finally whispered.

John blinked in shock at Sherlock's apology. That was the last thing he'd expected from him. Finally, the mask that the self-proclaimed sociopath kept firmly in place slipped and John saw a level of emotion that was as deep as it was fathomless. Pain rippled over his bruised face and for once John didn't question whether or not the other man felt loss. Mary's death had affected him every bit as deeply as it had affected John. He just hadn't been able to see it before now.

"So what do we do now?" John wondered with a slight shrug.

Sherlock's face turned toward the sound of the doctor's voice. "I don't know. I don't have a plan." He broke off and then shook his head. "Baker Street?"

John watched the hopeful expression spread over Sherlock's face. "Okay." He agreed finally. "But I'm going too."

His face dropped and Sherlock's shoulder's slumped against the pillows supporting his battered body. But the thought of John _leaving_ was a failure that he wasn't prepared to deal with. "Going where?"

John stopped moving and turned to stare at Sherlock. He could see the anticipated rejection on his face and it was awful. He needed to fix this and quick. "Same as you. 221B Baker Street." The full spectrum of emotions that flitted across Sherlock's face in a matter of seconds was staggering. Shock. Pleasure. Fear. Confusion. And finally, acceptance.

"What about Rosie?"

"I don't imagine you'll need me after a few weeks, you know, when they repair your eyesight. Until then, she's okay where she is. Probably better for her."

Sherlock frowned at that. "I doubt that." He said evenly. He paused for a moment before pushing on. "What if they don't?"

"Don't what?"

"Fix my eyes?"

John pulled himself up and then shifted so he was nearer the bed. When he started speaking again, Sherlock jerked in surprise by the change. "Sherlock, I'm not going to leave you alone in this. I will be there."

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _This is more of a set up chapter to dealing with Sherlock's current blindness and the conniving Culverton Smith…who still wants to kill Sherlock. Leave a review if you have a minute…thank you._


	6. Back Home

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 6**

 _Back Home_

Three days later…

Sherlock's fingers ghosted along the wall as he slowly made his way toward 221B. He could no longer see the knocker that Mycroft insisted on straightening every time he came to visit. Or the little shop that sat just to the right of the front door. The reality of his situation had hit him full force when he stepped through the door on Baker Street. The smell of the place descended on Sherlock like a heavy life-altering weight that he could not deny. He couldn't see…he was blind...

Slowly he removed his coat, ignoring the jabs of pain in his side. The broken ribs would take weeks to heal and it would be months before they didn't trouble him. This wasn't the first time he'd broken his ribs. When he'd been in secondary school he gotten into an argument with a particularly heinous student and while Sherlock still maintained that he had been right, the boy had been quite a bit bigger than he had been and that had led to two broken ribs and a severely blackened eye. Mycroft had taken care of the boy after that. Sherlock still didn't know exactly what had been said between them, but the boy never spoke to Sherlock again.

He inched his way up a staircase that he'd ascended thousands of times, his toe caught on the edge of the riser and he toppled forward. A sharp zing of pain shot up through his knee as it bounced off the wood and he landed in a heap of twisted muscles and rumpled Belstaff. A fiery wash of agony wound its' way along his ribcage and centered in the middle of his chest. Sherlock bit back the harsh words that were threatening to erupt.

He had barely hit the floor before John was at his side trying to help him up. "I've got it." He snapped without meaning to.

"Let me help you, Sherlock." John responded without moving away.

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he swallowed down the immediate rebuttal. He hated weakness and right now he was nothing but weaknesses. Accepting help went against every bone in his body and it was knocking up against his ability to help himself. He couldn't do this without John. But accepting the help was difficult. And yet if he didn't, he would be pushing John away, the exact opposite of what he had hoped to accomplish. He finally nodded once.

With a hand still on his shoulder, John slipped his free arm beneath Sherlock's elbow and slowly lifted the thin man back to his feet. The solid feeling of the doctor's strength seemed to permeate through their combined limbs and the detective eventually rose up on unsteady legs. His left hand pressed against the wall for added balance and he leaned against John as they made their way up the last few steps.

The familiar smell of 221B was both comforting and tragic as Sherlock stepped past the doorframe and into the only place that had ever been _home_. The place had a strange combination of tea and chemicals. It was the perfect representation of his and the doctor's relationship. Only now he couldn't use his microscope to figure out how things worked or why something decayed at a faster rate than anticipated. The loss of his ability to perform chemistry hadn't really settled on him set and he was not looking forward to the moment it did.

He pulled the image of what the living room had looked like the last time he'd been there and used it to navigate his way toward his chair. John hadn't said anything else after the unfortunate mishap on the stairs. And Sherlock didn't know how he felt about everything and it was probably best if he just kept his mouth shut until he did.

With some effort he shrugged out of the heavy coat and allowed John to take it away.

"Can I get you anything, tea? Biscuits?"

Sherlock allowed his vacant gaze to wander to the relative area he thought John was standing in. The deep black of nothingness greeted him and he furrowed his eyebrows in frustration. He didn't want food or tea, he wanted his eyesight, "No." he ground out.

"Sherlock…do you want the telly on?" He nearly kicked himself when he realized what he'd said. Sherlock couldn't see the bloody telly, so what was the purpose.

The silent man huffed in something that almost sounded like a pained chuckle. His eyes rolled away from the doctor and he shook his head. The silence went on for a bit too long, "I see I don't need to inform you of the failure in that particular plan?" Sherlock listened for the change in John's breathing, when he heard it he let his head fall to the back of the chair and slouched down.

"I'm going to make some tea." John said quickly. His heels clicked over the wood floor as he made his way toward the kitchen.

"Of course you are." Sherlock muttered.

"Sorry?"

"Nothing." He didn't want to get into a fight with John and the way he was feeling right now, that was exactly what was going to happen. He pushed himself back into a sitting position and then slowly got up. His knee sang in pain, but it was more the kind that ached severely, though generally wasn't permanent. Not that he really needed any more pain in his life. Sherlock started to move through the waiting furniture _hazards_ in the living room.

His intention was on making it to the bathroom at the end of the hall. But he misjudged the distance and stumbled into the door jam. John's tinkering in the kitchen immediately stopped and Sherlock knew that he was trying to figure out if he should ask about the thump or not.

"I'm fine." He called out as he corrected his path and stepped carefully down the hallway. Heat raced up his neck and he felt it burn the tips of his ears. Sherlock wasn't used to being embarrassed. He generally didn't care what other people thought, _everyone but John that is._

Once he was finished he debated on going back to his chair or just calling it a night and heading to his room. As badly as he wanted to lie down and forget about his problems, at least for a few hours, he couldn't. Sherlock needed to make sure John was okay. The uncomfortable anger curdling in his gut couldn't be allowed to fester. So for once in his life, Sherlock made the decision that was extremely uncomfortable and would require him to delve into feelings he would rather not.

He pressed his palm into the wall and used it to guide him back to the living room. When he reached the end, he pulled up the memory of how many steps it would take him to get to his chair and what obstacles might be in his way. The smell of tea was now quite strong, so he assumed to John must be nearly done with it. His progress was slow, but he eventually made it back to his chair.

"Your tea." John said as he reached down and gently took Sherlock's hand, placing it around the warm cup. Sherlock noticed that it was in one of the sturdy mugs and not the more delicate cups that John generally preferred. He assumed that was in case he dropped it. While that stung, he actually agreed.

He heard John shift toward his own chair, settling down, presumably to drink his own cup of tea. "Thank you." Sherlock said between sips.

"Sure." John responded quickly. They again fell into silence and the consulting detective wasn't sure what to say next. They had at least 2 ½ weeks of this. The doctors weren't confident he'd be in a condition to perform the sensitive surgery until then. Which meant that things were going to either return to normal after that, or Sherlock would have to figure out how to move on with his life...as a blind man.

His long fingers wrapped easily around the drink and he found that he had to pay close attention to keep from missing his mouth as he went to take a drink.

"So how is this going to work?" Sherlock finally asked. He heard a sharp intake of breath from the man that, he assumed, was sitting directly across from him.

There was a long pause before he sighed out, "I don't know, Sherlock." John leaned back into the chair and swiped his hand through his hair. "I have no idea how this is going to work."

Sherlock's chest tightened when the doctor's admitted to being as confused as he was. For some strange reason he had assumed that John would have the answers he did not. As it turned out, neither of them was prepared for this new dynamic. And what happens if it is permanent?

"Sherlock, I saw your chart. I believe that they can remove the clot. And I _hope_ that that it alleviates the pressure on the optic nerve and returns your sight—"

"Get in line." Sherlock hissed.

John ignored the comment, "Either way it won't send me running for the door." He pulled in a slow labored breath. He knew that he'd left Sherlock in the past, but this was different, because this was _his_ fault. John lifted his tea and took a sip. "I'm going to be here no matter what happens with the surgeons and your condition."

The thin man snorted. "You don't even live here, John. What happens the first time I try to make toast?" None of this was going the way that Sherlock had envisioned.

"When have you _ever_ made toast?" John wondered aloud.

Sherlock jerked at that and then raised an eyebrow. "I can make toast." He blurted out without considering how childish it sounded. He snapped his mouth shut after that.

John chuckled. "Right."

"I can."

"Sure you can. Bit like seeing a Leprechaun...you making toast." John said with a laugh.

A deep rumble of laughter from Sherlock sent them both into silence again.

For a moment, just a moment, Sherlock forgot about his eyesight and all the things that had happened in the last few weeks. And then, like having cold water thrown on him, he was reminded of his situation when he couldn't see John's reaction. He sobered and shook his head. "I don't know how to do this."

"Do what?"

Sherlock shrugged. " _Need_ people." He considered that he was revealing more than he wanted to, but he also wanted to be honest with John. Lying to the doctor had never worked out well for either one of them.

221B 221B

John made his way up the stairs to his old room; his head was swimming with unresolved emotions. The patterned wallpaper caught his attention and he wondered, not for the first time, why Mrs. Hudson had chosen it. It seemed a bit out of character for her. The weaving simplicity was almost painful to look at. John stopped and leaned against the wall before slowly sliding down.

He sat on the top stair for a long time considering what his life might look like if he had never met Sherlock Holmes. John was certain that he would likely be dead. He'd slid so far into depression that he'd taken to staring at his Browning regularly and nothing seemed to help. The sessions with his therapist hadn't been going well.

She wanted him to open up and talk about his feelings, but the problem was that that simply wasn't something that John Watson did. Talking about feelings was completely foreign to him. Growing up he'd been the strong one, he'd had to be. Harry wasn't able to handle the trauma of their childhood and she dove into an alcohol bottle for relief leaving him alone in the fight, but not John...he had not had that luxury.

It had been his responsibility to make sure that the family still functioned. His entire life he'd been about picking up the pieces of other peoples mistakes and now, he supposed, that he had come to believe that he couldn't make any of his own. And that if he did he would lose the people in his life that meant everything. He sighed and pinched at the bridge of his nose. Judging by the situation they currently found themselves in, he was right.

Texting that woman had been a mistake. Blaming Sherlock for Mary's death had been a mistake, and it would haunt him for the rest of his life. John knew who and what Sherlock Holmes was. It had taken him a bit to figure it out at first. But after the ridiculously sentimental, albeit strange, speech that the man had given at John's wedding, he could no longer deny that he understood the consulting detective.

When they hadn't known if Sherlock would wake up or if he would suffer from permanent damage, because of John, it had been devastating. Not only because Sherlock had been following Mary's directive, but because John had been the one to do that to him. The drugs, the isolation, the weight loss…they were all because John had cut the man out of his life. And Sherlock did not handle rejection well. He leaned against the strange wallpaper and pulled his lower lip between his teeth as he thought about their futures.

He had to work. John wasn't able to survive on the Army pension alone and Sherlock would no longer be able to provide for himself, income wise, as a consulting detective. So where did that leave them? He couldn't leave Sherlock home alone. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson and Greg could help with that?

His mobile vibrated. With a sigh he pulled the device from his pocket. Molly's smiling face popped up on the screen. He swiped over the 'answer' key, "Hey Molly. How's Rosie?"

"She's sleeping. We went to the park today. She likes the birds." The warm affection in her voice was soothing for John's heart. He worried about the little girl now left fully in his care. He had never been good with children although he had always wanted some of his own. Now it was up to him to give that little girl everything she needed to become a functioning adult and he was keenly aware of the fact that he couldn't do it alone.

Strangely enough, Sherlock had shown a great deal of finesse when dealing with Rosie. He played with her and explained things, sometimes in far too much detail, to her. It had been interesting to see just how quickly the child had wrapped the self-proclaimed sociopath around her small innocent fingers.

"John? You still there?" Molly's question drew John back to the conversation.

"Yeah, sorry. Just a bit tired."

Molly laughed softly. "Oh I can understand that. Sherlock is a full time job. To be honest, Rosie is less demanding."

John couldn't help the smile pulled at his lips. "True."

"How is he?" She asked quietly.

John was very aware of Molly's unrequited affection for the consulting detective. He felt bad for her on those days when she couldn't stop the look of longing that would ghost over her features. There seemed to be an unwritten rule among all of them, _we don't mention Molly's crush_. The only time that had been outted was by Sherlock himself at a New Years Eve bash. That had not been a pleasant thing to watch.

"As well as can be expected." He wasn't sure how to answer that question.

She sighed, "Do you think he'll get his sight back?"

"It's possible. If the clot is the only thing causing issues with his optic nerve then removing it could restore his eyesight."

There was a long silence on the other end and John wished that they were having this conversation face to face. He knew that she probably blamed him for Sherlock's condition, rightfully so, and he would like to know if their friendship had suffered a debilitating blow because of it.

"What's going to happen to him if he doesn't?" she whispered tightly.

John looked up at the ceiling and shook his head. "I don't know."

"John, he won't be able to deal with it. It'll ruin him."

"He won't be dealing with it alone, Molly. He has all of us."

Molly huffed at that. "Only if he'll let us help and Sherlock isn't good at that."

John heard something clunk downstairs and drew himself back to his feet. "Molly, I need to go check on him. Can you give Rosie a hug for me and I'll be by tomorrow to check on her?"

"Yeah, sure. Tell Sherlock I said…hi." With that the call disconnected and John hurried back down the winding stairs.

He popped into the living room and looked around. Empty. "Sherlock?" he called as he looked up the hallway toward the man's bedroom door. It was open. If he had been in his room the door would be shut. Sherlock was nothing if not predictable about his bedroom. Open when he was not in it. Closed when he was. "Hey mate?"

There was no answer and a sick feeling started twisting in the doctor's stomach. He looked inside and sure enough, no Sherlock. John clenched his teeth in frustration and hurried down the stairs. His heart leaped at the realization that the detective's Belstaff was missing from its' hook by the door. Which meant that for some reason Sherlock had gone out…

"Bloody hell." John swore as he pulled his own coat off the hook and grabbed his shoes.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _So I figured that Sherlock would never just stay put… Please leave a review if you have a minute…thank you._


	7. Lost Detective

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 7**

 _Lost Detective's_

Sherlock had never realized just how loud the city of London really was. But the taxis were buzzing around like enormous bees and the wind was pushing through the clustered buildings making a light whistling sound that was somehow soothing. He didn't know where he was exactly, he had a pretty good idea, but he wasn't positive. His hands were gliding along the building as he moved forward in slow halting steps.

Part of him knew that John would be worried. But Sherlock needed to know if he could function outside of 221B. He _needed_ to know if there was still any part of the man he'd been before…left inside him. When he'd been younger he'd gone through a phase that had nearly resulted in a permanent place in a psychiatrist's chair. And he knew where that would have led…part of him was concerned that he wouldn't fight as hard to save himself if there was no future for him.

The blindness was leaving him very few things to fight for. There was John and Rosie, of course; but could they be enough? He was fairly certain that the answer to that was a resounding 'no'. Eventually John would want to move on with his life, he would want to find someone to share his future with. And Sherlock couldn't fault him for wanting a life and having to babysit his blind friend wouldn't really allow for that.

His heart hammered in his chest as a horn blared from a few feet away. Sherlock stumbled against the wall, ignoring the burst of pain.

"Sherlock?" A surprised Lestrade jumped out of his car. He had had to do a double take when he'd seen the consulting detective making slow progress along the buildings of the side street more than three miles from Baker Street. He saw the jumpy way Sherlock's pale gaze lifted in his general direction and then dropped toward the sidewalk.

"Lestrade." He answered simply. It was an acknowledgment that he had heard the detective inspector, but he couldn't muster the energy to say anything further. He knew that the man would make him go back to Baker Street and Sherlock wasn't ready to, not yet.

The entire world seemed to drown out and narrowed down to a tiny little sound. The heels of Lestrade's shoes on the cement as he made his way toward where Sherlock was now leaning against the wall was the only thing he could hear. He sighed, "What…?"

The DI blew out a breath of his own and leaned next to the tall thin man. "Nothing. Just wondering why you're three miles from the flat when you're supposed to be home getting better."

"I'm fine." Sherlock bit out. It was so close to his old tone of irritation that the DI laughed.

"You're really not. Where's John?" The assured answer fell easily from the lips of the policeman and they pulled some of the resolve and hidden frustration from the the curly-haired man.

A familiar pang of regret coiled around his stomach and he shrugged. Not a normal problem for him, but definitely not one that he was a complete stranger to. Sherlock's entire life had been a series of regrets, ones that he had tried to bury under a thick skin and a surly attitude. Some days he even bought the disguise himself…today was not one of those days. "At 221B, I assume." There was a longing in his low baritone that alerted the detective inspector of just how much the current situation was ripping Sherlock apart, at least on the inside.

Lestrade pushed away from the stone wall in surprise, because there was no way that John would have let Sherlock go out on his own. Not like this. So that left only one possibility, the frighteningly stubborn consulting detective had wandered away without the doctor knowing. So the chances were pretty good that there was a very worried John Watson somewhere out on the streets of London searching for his lost friend. "You know he's not at the flat."

Sherlock's head tilted to the side and his black curls fell across his forehead making him so much younger than he really was.

The thin man pulled his lower lip between his teeth before answering. "Probably not."

"Would you be?"

"No." he said quickly. He had no doubt about where he'd be if John needed him. "But I can't go back. Not yet." Sherlock slumped against the wall and slid down to the ground. The tails of his Belstaff bunched up around his hips and he hunched over wrapping his long arms around his pulled up knees.

He felt the slow slide of clothing against the building and he knew that Lestrade had lowered himself down to the same level as Sherlock. "Why not?"

"Because…" Sherlock's head fell back against the bricks. "I just…need to feel normal. I need to maybe…find a way to still be… _me_." He raised his eyebrows and sighed loudly. "I don't know how to do that." He gestured in front in front of his eyes. "Not like this."

Lestrade was silent for several moments. So Sherlock just listened to the city and the people that were walking past the alley they were sitting inside of. The air was cooling quickly, so he knew that the sun was dropping and the smell of ozone alerted him that there was storm coming later. Part of him was concerned about how much he was revealing to the detective inspector. It wasn't normal for Sherlock to talk about his feelings, but ever since his experience with the loss of Mary and then John…it had been difficult for him to lie to people he cared about.

"You know things could go back to normal in a few weeks." Lestrade responded. "They could fix the problem."

Sherlock snorted. "Karma doesn't tend to work that way for me."

"You believe in karma?" The officer asked, shocked.

"No." And he didn't. The younger Holmes didn't believe in karma or god or any of the hokey things that regular people did. He'd seen too much of the other side of life; the side that murdered and deceived and stole futures from good… _people._ "I believe in being pragmatic." He shrugged. "I just…I have to figure out how I move forward if this doesn't…resolve itself with the surgery."

He heard Lestrade sigh. "Sherlock, you know John isn't the only one that will be around either way."

While he appreciated the support, it wasn't making him feel any better. He reached out blindly and found Lestrade's forearm. He patted it lightly before rising slowly to his awkward feet. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he leaned against the bricks for support, waiting for it to pass.

The DI saw the weariness coursing through every muscle of the consulting detective's body, but he didn't know what to do about it. The younger Holmes wasn't going to _let him in_. So he asked, "Are you okay?"

Sherlock considered the question for a moment before he answered, "No. Not really." Without another word he ran his long fingers along the rough wall, reorienting himself before he moved away from the officer.

"Where are you going?" Lestrade's voice was strained with underlying emotions that Sherlock didn't really understand. Emotions were not his thing. That was what he needed John for. Well, one of the things he needed the doctor for. John explained the emotional way that people dealt with life in a way that Sherlock could understand.

He stopped for just a second, "I don't know." And he started moving again.

"What do I tell John? That you're running away?" The question stopped him again and Sherlock took a deep breath.

He didn't turn toward the other man, "I'm not running away. I'm just getting my bearings."

He heard Lestrade's tight laugh and his stomach jumped and twisted with guilt. "Yeah, because John's really going to go in for that excuse as to why I lost you."

It was Sherlock's turn to groan. "You're not _losing_ me." He responded with a hiss. "I know my way home."

"Do you?"

The thin man nodded. "Yes." He paused again. "Greg, I need to gather my thoughts and I think best when I'm not distracted. I am _very_ distracted at the flat right now. I promise that I know my way back and I'll head there soon. I just need some time alone."

Sherlock hoped that the intuitive detective would not see through his lie. While he knew roughly where he was, he hadn't been paying close attention as he'd wandered. So Sherlock was only guessing which direction 221B was in. And he knew that John would be livid if he even suspected the truth. Because Sherlock Holmes had a destination in mind…and it wasn't one that his friend would agree with.

As a matter of fact, the chances were very good that John Watson would punch Sherlock in the face when he did learn the truth. However by that time it wouldn't matter anyway.

"Alright." Lestrade finally conceded against his better judgment. He watched as Sherlock's lips twitched before he started up the street, following the wall with his fingers. The detective inspector waited for several minutes before he started following the blind man. He did his best to stay far enough back that Sherlock wouldn't figure out that he wasn't alone on his evening stroll.

He rounded a corner a few minutes after the man in the long Belstaff coat only to find that Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. The streets and the sidewalks were completely empty. Lestrade's agitated fingers combed through his greying hair and he swore. _John's going to kill me._ He thought silently as he turned and ran back to his packed police car.

TBC…

 **Author's Note:** _Where has Sherlock gotten off to? What's his plan? And what the hell was Lestrade thinking? John's going to be a bit more than angry. Please leave a review…thank you._

 _It's short I know. But the next chapter will be up Saturday…_


	8. Glass Doors

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 8**

 _Glass Doors_

John found himself staring blankly at the dull streetlight across the road from where he stood. It was the one that marked the corner where the tiny restaurant sat that he and Sherlock had first shared a meal in. Okay, well John had eaten and Sherlock had stared out the window as he waited for a serial killer to find them. They would have many more meals like this as their friendship grew. The single-minded man tended to eat only when forced and almost never while on a case.

This was the first time that the doctor had realized that he liked this strange _boy-child_ man. The way that Sherlock had tried to correct, what he thought, was John hitting on him had been almost innocently hilarious. He'd clearly been uncomfortable talking about that with John. The way he'd immediately latched onto John's comment about _it_ being okay had piqued the doctor's curiosity about the insanely brilliant consulting detective.

At the current point within their friendship, John was fairly certain that Sherlock was _probably_ straight, but that had never been confirmed nor denied. The odd relationship with Irene Adler had certainly pointed in that direction and then there'd been the weird dynamic between Sherlock and Mary's maid of honor about a year ago. But never an out and out admission of his _desires_ , such as they were; John had always found that a little odd, but that could be because he was such a _ladies_ man. Okay well he wanted to be a ladies man; that didn't always turn out well.

Even after all these years, the younger Holmes remained an enigma to the man that blogged about their personal lives and the strange cases they solved together.

The emotions of the last several weeks weighed on John and he struggled to keep his mind focused on the glaring fact that he had lost Sherlock. God only knew where the consulting detective had gotten off to. The fact that the man couldn't see wouldn't stop him from trying to navigate the city…his city, as Sherlock like to call London.

John groaned as he pulled his mobile phone from his pocket. He wasn't going to be able to second guess where Sherlock might have gone, which meant that he needed help. The doctor wasn't pleased as he scrolled through his numbers looking for the one that belonged to one of the few people that could think like the self-proclaimed sociopath…his older brother.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft answered after two rings. "Is everything alright?" There was a slight edge coloring his question. One that Watson couldn't identify.

John bit his lip, "No, everything is not fine. Sherlock's taken off and I was hoping you had a way to track his movements?"

A brief silence was followed by sharp instructions on the other end of the line. John knew that the elder Holmes was engaging his network of spies and intelligence people in order to find Sherlock. He should have known that Mycroft would have a way to track his little brother. He was nothing if not predictable, so he would have known that at some point Sherlock would venture out into London and they may need to find him without his consent or knowledge.

The voices rumbled away and Mycroft's attention turned back to the phone call, "He gave you no indication as to where he was heading?"

John leaned back against an iron fence and sighed; the admission he was about to make scraped against his ego. "No. He took off while I was speaking to Molly about Rosie."

John could almost hear the condemnation pouring from the other man through the connection. "And you let him?"

Irritation sparked, "No. I did not _let_ him. I took the call in the upper room and by the time I returned to the living room, he was gone. I've been looking for over two hours, but so far nothing."

"And you haven't contacted Inspector Lestrade?"

"No. I wanted to find him without bringing everyone else in. But Sherlock isn't the easiest person to find and that's when I _know_ where he's going. I swear it's like he has a map inside his head of every tiny nook and cranny in this damned city." But that wasn't the only reason John didn't want to call Greg. The inspector had told him that Sherlock had taken the news of Mary's death much harder than John had realized and he needed to be careful with the broken man. He had clarified the aloof silence of the consulting detective, given it context, and the doctor felt guilty for his part in Sherlock's emotional breakdown.

Mycroft was silent for a moment before answering, "That's an apt description of my brother's memory technique. In essence he _does_ have a map in his head. But it wouldn't do him a lot of good without the use of his eyes, which suggests that he has a very specific destination in mind." He blew out a breath, "Dr. Watson, where would Sherlock go?"

John internally cringed, "I don't know!" he hissed in irritation.

Ever the professional, Mycroft did not dignify the outburst with a response. He simply moved on with the line of questioning. "If it was you and you'd lost that one thing that makes you _you…_ where would you go?"

The doctor swallowed and considered the question differently. _Where would I go?_ It only took him a moment before he landed on an answer. "Back to the scene of the crime. I would go back to the place I'd lost everything." He finally said in a defeated tone.

"Precisely. Now please go and retrieve my little brother before he does irreparable harm to himself." The connection died and John was instantly hailing a taxi.

As he climbed inside he considered that he would never know Sherlock the way that Mycroft did. The man was essentially _the British Government_ understood his little brother in ways that still baffled the doctor. Over the course of their friendship, John had thought that he was getting better at speaking _Sherlock_ …today was another reminder of how far he still had to go before he ever got to Mycroft's level of understanding. That was a bit painful to consider. Never in his life had John been friends with someone that he could not live without. But when Sherlock had leapt to his _death_ , John had ceased living. Then Mary happened and she brought him back to life. But he hadn't been whole. He had been surviving…

Then Sherlock had returned and thrust a wrench into the doctor's understanding of life and his place in it. The immense difficulty of accepting that Sherlock had lied to him, let him grieve to the point of wanting to eat a bullet had been difficult. Some days he was still upset about those two years without the shockingly self-centered man.

Finding a balance between Mary and Sherlock had been challenging to say the least. But eventually he had struck one and the three of them came to an understanding of their unique dynamic. It had been the closest to _happy_ that John could ever remember being and then _she_ had died and everything turned to poisoned shit.

The taxi pulled up to the destination and John jumped out, running the last few steps to the double glass doors. He yanked them open and rushed inside…

221B 221B

 _Saint Caedwalla's hospital…_

Sherlock listened carefully to the whoosh of the doors. There was a cacophony of voices drifting through the evening air. The winds had died down and now there was only the steady fall of rain to keep him company. His knees ached from several nasty spills as he'd made his way to the hospital, eventually he'd managed to get the attention of a taxi and his trip had been far easier.

No light penetrated the irises of his pale multi-hued eyes. There were no shadows for him to guess at. There were no shapeless masses that might indicate a person was passing somewhere near him. There was only darkness.

Over the course of his life he had never really fit in anywhere. Even in his own family, Sherlock had been an enigma. Mycroft had been the brilliant student with a bright future in the intelligence community. While his younger brother had been the one that had gotten himself hook on drugs and repeatedly beat up at school. When Sherlock had discovered his affinity for detective work, he'd finally felt like maybe he could have a purpose, a place in the world. He could finally do something that no one else could…not even Mycroft.

Because while his older brother might be brilliant, he wasn't a chemist and he didn't care about solving crimes; not if they didn't involve some form of national crisis, but Sherlock did. The thrill of the chase as the blood pumped through his veins was intoxicating in a way that drugs couldn't compete with…add into the mixture one John Watson; and it was the perfect narcotic for him.

Sherlock's heart clenched as he realized that he no longer fit into that world. Without his ability to see what others missed, he was essentially useless. A sound that he didn't recognize bubbled up and out of his throat before he sank to the pavement as an emotional onslaught washed over him. He had lost everything this time and he wasn't naïve enough to think he'd be getting it back. His mistakes had finally exacted their revenge and it was devastating.

It took several minutes for him to gain control. He wiped at the moisture on his face and took a deep stilted breath before slowly climbing to his feet. He hated himself at the moment. He hated the weakness and the uncontrollable emotions. He hated that he couldn't control what was happening to him, or inside him. The answer to his current problem was out of his hands.

Relinquishing control had never been easy for the younger Holmes; he thought that that might be at the heart of his addiction.

Because the only time that he felt truly free and unhindered was when he was high…or on a case and that would never happen again. He shook his head in resignation; he couldn't live like that. He _wouldn't_ live like that, which meant he needed to pull himself together and walk through those doors. Inside the glass was the potential answer to his problem. No one would understand why he did it…scratch that, John would figure it out.

Sherlock simply couldn't take the chance that the surgery wouldn't work. It would be easier for all involved if he simply followed through on his original plan and outed the serial killer now. Sure, the chances were extremely good that he would likely pay with his life. But without his deductive capabilities, he was dead anyway.

So he laid his hand against the outside of the building and used it to guide his steps through the glass doors.

Immediately his nose was assaulted by the pungent scent of rubbing alcohol and sanitizing agents. It was a typical smell for a hospital and one that he'd come to know very well over the years. Granted, he spent a lot of his time in the morgue, but hospitals cleaned those too. Several phones were ringing and it sounded as though a telly was playing somewhere in the background. A news program about… _oh hell, who cares_.

"Can I help you?" A male voice asked from directly in front of him.

Sherlock started in surprise and then immediately adopted his lofty baritone. "I'm looking for Culverton Smith. Is he here this evening?"

"Can I tell him who is looking for him?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

He waited for a few moments when the man said he'd check. The soft footfalls of people passing within mere feet of where he stood was grating on his nerves. Everything was a constant reminder of his _disability_. The word was like a chainsaw, burrowing through his skull and he couldn't do anything about it. Even the constant dull ache of pain in his ribs and stomach couldn't compare to that _word._ Actually, if he was being honest with himself it was more than a dull ache in his lower abdomen; it was sharp stabbing pain. But it wasn't like he was planning on walking back out of the hospital when this was over anyways.

Deep down Sherlock knew that this was depression talking. But he didn't see another way out. He could never be what he once was and it would be better for John and Rosie if he were out of their lives. And, if in the mean time, Sherlock could take out the vilest human being he'd ever come across? Well that was something worth dying for.

"Mr. Smith is in some meetings for a few hours. But he would like to offer you a room until he can meet you?"

The rise at the end of the man's sentence immediately informed Sherlock that it had been more of an order than a question. He knew that the small billionaire didn't _ask_ for things, he demanded them. In this case it would give the consulting detective a place to hide out while he brought his plan to fruition. If he went back to Baker Street John would never let him out of his sight again. This was the only chance he would be afforded to finish this case.

"That would be fine. I don't suppose you have some morphine? I'm in quite a lot of pain." Sherlock asked hopefully. His stomach was really starting to twist and pull in a fiery heated way. Something must have torn loose. There was a very good chance that he was now bleeding internally. For one moment he felt a pang of guilt. He was knowingly allowing the bleed to progress and John would know that when they performed the autopsy, a report that he would demand to see. _It's better for you this way, John._ He had to believe that that was true.

"Culverton also left instructions that if you were bothered by your previous injuries we should make you as comfortable as possible. So yes, I think we can round up something to help with the pain. I'm going to go check you in official—"

"What? No." Sherlock bit out in a rush. "I'll call someone once I'm settled in to take care of the paperwork. Or you can just send it all to my brother in the morning. I don't want to bother anyone tonight."

"Oh. Okay then."

Twenty minutes later Sherlock was sitting on the bed in the room that Smith had referred to when they'd been down in the morgue. _His favorite room._ At the time, the detective hadn't known if he'd been referring to the morgue or the room that people checked into but did not check out. Either way, Sherlock was now travelling quickly down the path his plan had thrust him on after Mary's death. The moment he considered how livid she would be, another slice of guilt slithered through him. He angrily shoved the unwanted feeling away and slid out of his coat, tossing it in the general direction of where he assumed there was a chair.

He was only alone for about ten minutes before the man returned and expertly inserted a needle into Sherlock's arm, seating the IV port at his elbow and taping it down. "Lean back, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock did as he was asked and then felt the warm rush of the morphine immediately start to dull his pain. But that wasn't all it did, within seconds he felt his wits start to cloud as well. "Hey, how much did…you give me?" His tongue felt puffy and dry and he found that his words were slurring together. Considering how high he knew his tolerance was for the opioid-based drug, it was apparent that he'd either been given a very strong dose or there was something else in the needle besides morphine.

"Mr. Smith said to rest and stay put. He'll be with you shortly."

Without meaning to Sherlock could feel his grasp on reality slipping away as the heavy dosage sent him into a delirious state of acceptance. His hands wouldn't obey his commands when the man suddenly grabbed them. The cold feeling of metal told the detective that he'd just been handcuffed to the bed. Not that it mattered. He wasn't going anywhere, not in his current state.

It happened so fast that it was almost like having icy cold water thrown in his face. Suddenly he realized that he _didn't_ want to die. Even if his condition was permanent, he wasn't ready to cash in his chips. But now he was in the worst possible situation and to make matters worse, he hadn't told anyone where he was heading. Not even Mycroft knew where to find him. And he didn't have a list…so whatever the man had given him wouldn't be accounted for even if his brother managed to locate him and administer medical help.

The quickly progressing drowsiness, and inability to raise his head from the pillow it now rested on, pointed to more than just morphine. He ground his teeth together when he heard the door click shut and the soft 'snicked' of a slide bolt being driven home. He was trapped…and he'd done it to himself.

221B 221B

John barely waited for the doors to slide apart before he was racing inside and across the marble floor. The soft blue glow of the lights as they diffused through the tanks felt ominous. It was the same feeling he'd had the night that Mary had died. As he skidded to stop in the area where the sharks were housed his eyes spun around looking for Sherlock. But the place was empty. "Sherlock?" he called with little hope that he'd receive an answer.

In that moment a terrible realization crashed over the doctor. This was the place where _John's_ world had crashed down. But it wasn't the place where Sherlock's had…no, that had been inside the morgue when John had torn his heart out before beating him nearly to death.

With a choke cry he turned on his heel and ran for the entrance, praying that the taxi might still be there. The hospital was over two hours from where he now found himself and deep down he knew that if he didn't get to Sherlock fast, he would lose him too.

TBC…

 **Author's Note:** _So yeah, it's Sunday for a new chapter, sorry I got pulled into other things yesterday and wasn't able to post. If you can, please leave a review…thanks._


	9. Confessions of a Serial Killer

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 9**

 _Confessions of Serial Killer_

Sherlock drifted through the misty clouds of a dream world that made absolutely no sense to him. The smells were familiar and yet strangely off putting in a way that wasn't entirely comprehensible to the hazy mind's eye. The spinning realm was reminiscent of when he'd been drugged by Irene Adler. A bitter acceptance of the woman's abilities lanced through him, if he could have frowned, he would have; she was much like him. Oh, not as stunningly brilliant as he was, but she had a way of surviving even the most hopeless of situations. He allowed his mind to drift back his current reality; the past could not help him now.

Sherlock had been moderately aware of what was happening around his transport, but in no condition to do anything about it. Part of him wondered if he'd again gotten himself in over his head? Memories of the crystalline waters of the pool and how he'd underestimated Moriarty and then again with Vivian Norbury pulsed through his fractured thoughts. A black cloud of despair that seemed to accompany any thoughts of Mary's death surrounded him. They held him hostage to the roiling emotions of failure and guilt.

Sherlock had been in plenty of scrapes in the past, but those times hadn't ultimately been a problem, because he'd had John. _He'd had John…_

Now he was cruelly, vividly aware that his friend was gone; he was alone. He had no one. A crushing sense of loss bounded through him, bringing feelings he hadn't experienced since he was a child. Before John, the closest thing he'd ever had to a true friend had been Redbeard…and to some extent, his rubbish older brother. But then he'd met the doctor and it was like finding the missing half of himself. And the loss of that other-half was devastating… He didn't know how he knew, but Sherlock knew that he was entirely alone in this. There would be no _John Watson_ to save him; not this time.

Sherlock's first _real,_ grounding sensation was pain. It radiated up from his stomach and seemed to be clenching somewhere around his sternum in a vice-like grip. He tried frantically to remember what had caused it? Where was the pain coming from and how could he stop it? He wanted to hiss in aggravation when his fractured mind could not land on an answer. It moved in and out in waves that left left him altering between despair and relief. It was confusing.

He finally gave up the fruitless search for meaning and moved on to things he could _quantify,_ more of the sensory-type of perceptions, anything that wasn't _pain_. He focused his chaotic thoughts around trying to discern exactly where he was. A word was nagging at the base of his brain…medical.

The blinding realization was sudden and absolute. By the unmistakable presence of cleaning agents, he could only deduce that he was back in hospital. But why? What had happened to send him back...had John come after him again? His entire being rebelled at the idea that the doctor had again lashed out, but the tiniest fraction of doubt continued to chip away at him, no matter how much he tried to deny it.

Through the fog he was able to identify a dull aching pinch that could only be caused by a needle, one that was likely shoved deeply into the vein at his elbow.

Unfortunately, this was a condition he was deeply and irrevocably familiar with. Sherlock's past with drugs wasn't something he was ashamed of, but it wasn't something he was particularly proud of either. It simply…was a fact in his rather storied past. The floating sensation shifted and blurred into less of a fog, taking on more of a pressing ache that forced him, slowly, from his constantly shifting cloud of indifference.

The itching need to open his burning eyes and focus on the world around him was strong enough to pull him from oblivion toward awareness. Sherlock swallowed thickly, furrowing his eyebrows as another wave of pain washed over his newly forced consciousness. For a moment he didn't remember…he didn't understand upon peeling his eyelids apart why the world remained shrouded in darkness.

A voice that he would never, could never, forget taunted him softly from somewhere off to his left. "You've been forever waking up."

And the crushing reality nearly stole the shallow breath from Sherlock's lungs as he was thrust back into full and complete awareness. _Blind...I'm blind..._ for a moment he wished that he'd remained in the prismatic world inside his mind. The one that did not include a life-altering disability. _At least I know why I'm alone now..._ The weight of his plan settled heavily on his chest and his breathing staggered for a moment as emotions threatened to overwhelm his tenuous control, before dropping into a more steady rhythm.

Culverton's voice burned whatever bone-deep exhaustion was left in Sherlock's system from him and he fervently wished that he could look over at the snake and actually _see_ him. Because there was no question who was sitting next to him, nor why he was there.

There was a lengthy silence from the serial killer, before he chortled and his expensive clothing rustled. _A high-quality silk blend._ The observation was made without him even realizing it. Sherlock twitched uncomfortably when he felt heat radiate off the man's body, which informed him that the billionaire was now standing directly over him. "It's almost as if you placed yourself in my path, knowing what I would do." A slight lisp ensured that Sherlock knew he was correct in his deduction of the man's identity.

A shudder rippled along the consulting detective's body as he felt a soft finger glide slowly along his prominent cheekbones before grabbing his chin in a painfully strong grip. Culverton pulled his face to the side and Sherlock was certain that the disgusting little man was only a few inches from his face. "Why?"

The injured man could not stop the small act of defiance as he tore his chin out of the wretched grasp. "You know why." He answered weakly. The normally strong baritone had none of the usual bravado, only soft resignation.

Culverton took a step back and huffed in understanding. "I want to hear you say it."

Sherlock's teeth ground together and he found himself again wishing he could at least see the leech's expression. It was so difficult to decipher what was happening without the visual cues. He had grown accustomed to reading them that it had become almost mundane over the years. And yet now, as he faced possibly the most lethal adversary he'd ever come across (he did not include Moriarty in that list, being as he was _the_ most dangerous enemy of Sherlock Holmes), he was completely without his greatest weapon…his powers of observation.

"Come on then…" Culverton chided and he grabbed onto Sherlock's dark hair and yanked his head toward where he was standing.

If looks could have killed, Sherlock was sure that the man would be a lumpy, burning pile of ash. The sudden shocking pain of having his bruised body so forcefully redirected burned through him, drawing a soft hiss from the pale lips. "I want you to kill me."

The painful pressure grinding into his curly dark hair was instantly gone and he heard a soft breath of acceptance and anticipation. There was a light sound as, he assumed, Culverton moved around the hospital bed; heeled shoes clicking across the tiled floor. Again the soft rustling of expensive cloth… _he's removing his jacket._ Sherlock realized with dueling feelings of relief and worry.

The air in the room almost seemed to shift as the predator stalked its helpless prey. Not for the first time, Sherlock hoped to hell that Mary had been right. Even if he never regained his eyesight, if John never returned from the dark path he was now walking, Sherlock _hoped_ that this final act would absolve him of the blame he could never escape.

The internal struggle waged without ever revealing itself in his unfocused gaze. His multi-hued eyes shifted slightly at the continued movement of the killer.

"Why?" Culverton questioned. A few clicks caught Sherlock's attention and struggled to control his features. The game was progressing and he couldn't reveal his hand now…

The pale man allowed his gaze to flicker away from the sound of Culverton's voice, his throat bobbed with very real emotion, "I have my reasons."

A sigh slipped past the other man's lips and Sherlock heard more clicking… _he's messing with the settings on my drip._ That realization sent an almost paralyzing shock jolted through the injured detective. He needed to get the confession and he needed to get it before he succumbed to whatever had just been altered in the medical equipment.

"I needed to know I was right." Sherlock finally whispered softly.

He heard the other man stop moving for a moment and then the bed dipped slightly as he sank down next to Sherlock's weakened body. "Right about what?" Culverton asked, his fingers again drifted over Sherlock's slightly sweaty brow.

A sickening feeling was forming deep in his stomach as the consulting detective realized that he didn't really know what sick fetishes drove the serial killer. It might not be just the _death_ of his victims…he forced his slowly building fears back into the trunk inside his mind-palace. He could not afford to lose his focus, not now. He shifted his face away from the probing icy feel of the other man's unwanted fingers as they had trailed over his skin.

Culverton sighed, but allowed him the slight distance. He did not, however, move from where he sat, his hip almost burning a hole through the thin blankets, the only thing separating him and the consulting detective's pliant transport. "Right about what?" Culverton repeated coolly.

Sherlock's throat worked as he struggled to find the response. _No, not just any response. The correct response._ His brain was starting to drift again and he knew that whatever Culverton had given him, it was starting to have an effect. Finally, his exhausted mind latched onto the illusive thoughts, " The dead...you make your confession to them. Your favorite room."

He felt the smaller man stiffen next to him. Sherlock knew that he'd latched onto something that was supposed to be hidden from the rest of the world. He almost laughed at the idea. _He_ was a man that couldn't actually _see_ anything and yet he had managed to unearth this man's deepest, darkest secret; one that had remained hidden in the depths of a sick, delusional mind. One that had never been torn from the shadows and thrust into the light.

It took several moments before Culverton managed to slow his frantic breathing. It had assaulted him the moment Sherlock's observation had left the injured man's lips. He needed to gain control of the situation again. When he started speaking, his fingers drifted over the drugged and battered consulting detective. "You know in the movies when a person is pretending to be dead?"

A shiver followed the slow movements of Culverton's fingers. Sherlock's skin burned along the trail of those horrible, _searching_ fingers. There was a sudden pinch and then a burn just below the surface where the needle dispensed something into him. "What are you doing?" Sherlock slurred as the combined changes to his medicine drip and whatever he'd just been injected with dulled his musculature control.

Neither of the drugs, however, dulled the rapid, almost frantic, observations of his mind.

"Just giving you something to make this easier." Culverton's hand slipped and cupped Sherlock's jaw. "After all, you wanted a confession, didn't you?"

The sensation of having no control over his body while his mind was completely aware was nothing short of agonizing for someone like Sherlock. He found he couldn't give voice to any of the questions now swirling through his mind. So not only was stuck in the oppressive darkness, now he did not even have control of his own body. Without meaning to, his thoughts turned to John. His heart twisted painfully at what his death might mean for the army doctor. John would blame himself and he would never know that this had all been for him…everything that Sherlock had done since that horrific night in the aquarium, had been for _him._

Every single place that Culverton's hands touched left a burning trail. The consulting detective could not stop the feeling that the psychopath was branding him. His heart thudded painfully hard inside his chest and he heard the hitched, excited breathing of the man that would be the one to kill him. And it was all happening directly above his paralyzed face.

"That's not what dead bodies look like…"

His words chilled Sherlock to the bone. He tried desperately to get his hands to do anything besides lie there, completely useless along his sides. The pressure of the continually roving hands shifted up, dragging along his sternum toward Sherlock's vulnerable neck.

"Dead people look like things."

 _A shuttering breath…_

 _Fingers closing around his thin throat…._

"I like to make people look like _things_."

 _Spittle landed on Sherlock's cheek and he could do nothing, but close his eyes._

"Maintain eye contact…"

A scuffle outside the room, voices that he thought he recognized forced Sherlock's heavy eyelids apart.

"Maintain eye contact…" Culverton hissed out through deformed-yellow teeth.

It occurred to him as he listened, rather strangely, that the bloody little man had never taken the time to fix the misshapen bones inside his mouth. With all the money that he had acquired, it would have been easy and yet he had chosen to keep the reminder of his poor uninsured youth. He would have laughed at the ridiculousness of the thought if he hadn't been struggling to keep himself from succumbing to the encroaching, and he feared, rather permanent darkness. He couldn't see a damn thing and he was thinking about the man's dental habits.

"I like to watch it happen…"

The world took on the hushed sounds of a drowning man and Sherlock felt his mind finally settle quietly into the bleak oblivion of death.

XXXX

John's pulse thudded as he raced up to the hospital, his mobile held loosely in his left hand. Lestrade had told him that he would meet him at the hospital, but a part of the doctor was absolutely terrified that they would both be too late to save Sherlock from this asinine idea of his.

When John had screeched into the parking lane he hadn't even turned the car off as he had torn up the stone steps toward the entrance of the hospital. He'd made a strategic mistake and he was _terrified_ that Sherlock would be the one to pay for that. If Sherlock survived this, then John was going to pound his friend into dust. If he wasn't already dead...when he found him.

He skittered down the long hallway, his eyes pinned on the room at the end of the corridor. The one that that smarmy psychopath had told them about as he gloated about _his wing_.

 _Don't be dead. Don't be dead. Don't be dead._ The mantra repeated over and over and over as the doctor grabbed the door handle and twisted desperately.

Locked. _It was fucking locked!_ He didn't even think about what he what he was going to do, he simply reared back and slammed his upper body into the large solid door. The wood groaned, but finally gave way beneath the manic strength of the small, compact man. John felt something _pop_ inside his shoulder and there was a staggering wash of pain as he stumbled into the darkened room.

He lurched to a halt, allowing his eyes to adjust. Instantly something inside him roared up in anger and denial. The short, portly killer had his stubby fingers wrapped around tightly Sherlock's slender throat, his palm blocking any air that might have been drawn through the nose. Sherlock wasn't twitching or grasping desperately at the instruments of his death. John ignored the nearly debilitating pain that lanced through him as he quickly closed the distance between them in two long desperate strides. "What the hell are you doing?!" he cried as he wrenched the smaller man away from the still from in the bed.

An anger that blinded him to everything else welled up inside him and exploded. John had felt the same staggering _rage_ that had compelled him to nearly kill his best friend.

But somehow this was different, because he had no intention of allowing this man to walk from the room. It had never been his intension to kill Sherlock. that was not the case now. His arm tightened, the ineffectual clambering of the other man's hands at the crook of his elbow did nothing to dissuade him. And he _knew_ that he was going to kill this man. The sickening coughs and wet gasping breaths only spurred on the overwhelming anger…his rage, loss and fathomless despair had finally found an outlet…and then John was being forcibly hauled away from the slowly falling psychopath. He screamed in defiance and tried to fight the strong grip he now found himself locked in. He managed to throw and elbow and heard the _crack_ of breaking cartilage.

"Oi! What the hell?!" There was something familiar about the voice, but John couldn't put his finger on it.

Lestrade's arms had wrapped around his chest as another officer pulled on the unconscious form of the billionaire in an effort to separate them. "John! Stop!" The strained voice barely penetrated as the doctor struggled with an unnatural strength that both shocked and surprised the detective inspector. His eyes had landed heavily on the unmoving body lying in the bed before he'd made a frantic decision to stop John from actually _killing_ someone.

He was pretty certain that on the day he'd met the army doctor that he'd been the one responsible for killing the cabbie, but he had had no proof, so he'd been able to let it go. But if John killed this man inside his own hospital, there would be little that could be done to save him. So as much as it broke his heart to ignore the prostrate figure lying far too still in the bed, he done it, because he knew that live or die, Sherlock would never forgive him if John somehow paid a price for any of this.

"JOHN!" Lestrade shook the struggling man and ignored the sickening sensation of bones grinding together in John's shoulder.

The pain cut through the haze of the panicked rage and suddenly the shorter man went nearly limp in his arms. He ignored the throbbing pain that was now shooting through his face. He reached up and pressed his other sleeve against the blood that dripped off his chin. Lestrade's eyes shifted to the unconscious killer on the floor and then back up to the approaching officer. "Get that _thing_ out of here."

Immediately the officer, helped by a security guard, cuffed and removed Culverton's unaware form. "Close the door on the way out." He added as an afterthought when he felt John start to shake.

The adrenaline was wearing off and the smaller man was likely to feel, not only the physical pain of his injury (even Lestrade could see the sickly way his shoulder was hanging, the angle was wrong), but the emotional pain as well.

John's legs wobbled and he struggled to turn toward the bed. His eyes landing desperately on the too still form. He forced himself to search for any movement. A small rise to the still chest…a twitch of those long, thin artists fingers…anything… _just move, dammit_.

He found he couldn't force his legs to move. For one achingly painful moment John considered what his life would be like now.

A strangled sob caught in the back of his throat at the thought of continuing on alone. _I can't do that again...life has no meaning. No purpose..._ He no longer had Mary and he couldn't fathom raising Rosie alone. It had never occurred to him, not since Mary had died anyway, that he had never imagined any part of his life without the insufferable, self-proclaimed sociopath. His connection to the thin, incorrigible man was deeper even than his enormous love for Mary, because Sherlock was the other half of him.

The staggering realizations only took a fraction of a second to bombard his thoughts before John stumbled out of Greg's grasp. He fell to his knees beside the bed, his muscles no longer capable of supporting him. His good hand immediately pushed into the bruised windpipe of his best friend and then searching for any signs of life. John nearly chocked on his disappointment when he found nothing, no flutter against his questing fingertips. "Oh God…" he whispered brokenly, his hand sliding away in defeat.

Lestrade, denied his own pain as he watched. He was so focused on John that he didn't see the rapid flickering beneath Sherlock's closed eyelids. John's head was bowed, his forehead lying against the consulting detective's right side. It was only when Sherlock managed to lift his trembling hand and lay it softly on John's shaking head that he realized his friend was not, in fact, dead…they had not been too late. Not this time. John hadn't been able to save Sherlock the first time. _No, Moriarty had been quicker than Culverton._ The thought stabbed him through the heart and he shuttered at the strength of it.

John started at the feeling of something settling lightly in his hair. It was hesitant, like the owner wasn't sure if he had the _right_ to touch the grieving doctor. He jerked back with a hiss of pain as his shoulder protested the rapid movement. Glassy blue eyes focusing instantly on the hazy, roving eyes of his friend. Sherlock's gaze was focused in his general direction, though it did not appear that he was _seeing_ John. Sherlock tried to whisper something and then wheezed in pain as his damaged throat constricted.

"No." John said quickly, his hand moving to stop Sherlock from speaking. "Don't try to talk."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in question and then he narrowed his constantly shifting gaze; he was trembling slightly, though whether it was from fear or pain, John did not know. It occurred to the doctor that Sherlock must be looking for Culverton, even if he couldn't actually see the slimy little man, he needed to know where he was. Anger swelled inside him and he hoped that whatever had happened inside this room before he'd broken through the door hadn't been...scarring. "He's gone." John bit out angrily.

Again, Sherlock's eyes shifted and he questioned John without uttering a word. _Was it you? Did you kill him?_

John wished that he had. As he looked at the vulnerable glaze in Sherlock's blue-gray eyes, he wished that he had choked the life from the man. "No, I didn't kill him." He answered softly.

A look of relief spread across Sherlock's pale face and he nodded once in understanding.

They were interrupted as hospital staff descended on the room, John was gently pulled from his friend's side. He turned toward door and realized that at some point, Lestrade must have gone for medical help. As the adrenaline continued to dissipate from his system, the near-blinding pain magnified along his shoulder and he swayed slightly. A steady hand grabbed his good elbow and he allowed Greg to guide him toward a chair. Better that he sat down before he fell down. "He's in good hands, mate. I've got this."

John lifted veiled-trusting blue eyes toward the detective inspector, "Make sure he's not alone." And with that the doctor lost his own battle with the darkness and he slid bonelessly down into the chair. A small part of him noticed that Greg had blood streaked across his tan face and he meant to ask about it, but his shoulder took that moment to flare with white-hot pain.

Lestrade barked a few orders and then watched as the two men that he considered essential to his life were wheeled away. He felt a chill run through him as he was left alone inside this room of death. It was almost as though he could feel the cries of Culverton's victims settling into peaceful rest. It disarmed him and he hurried from the strangely oppressive gratitude that almost seemed to surround him. If he never went into that room again, it would be too soon.

TBC…

 **Author's Note:** _Apologies for the delay in this chapter. I do hope it meets with you approval. I know there's a bit an 'supernatural' feel right there at the end, but it seemed appropriate for a room that had housed so much death. The next chapter is the last and will have loads of bromance…oh and closure of Sherlock's injured eyesight._

 _If you have a moment…please leave a review._


	10. Spirits of Contrite Doctor &of Detective

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 10**

 _Spirits of a Contrite Doctor & of a Consulting Detective_

Sherlock had no reliable concept to judge the passage of time, not in his unfamiliar world of darkness. He found himself unable to determine if it was morning or night, early or late…so instead, he found himself listening to _everything_ that happened inside his hospital room.

He was fairly certain he was not still inside the _murder room_ , but he couldn't be absolutely certain of that. Women's voices floated through the atmosphere, bouncing off the walls of the institution, _nurses_ , he determined. The soft beeping of medical machines, sitting next to his head, confirmed his suspicions; he was still inside a hospital.

The detective ached to turn his head; to move, just a little. Instantly, he regretted the rather poor decision. His entire throat lit up in a startlingly painful way. Knife-like pain with the precision of a scalpel seemed to radiate along his entire left side, _so probably some form of surgery_ …he shifted again, grimacing in the process. He could still feel the tightness of swelling along the ridge of his left eyebrow. The place where John's fists had connected over and over…he shied away from the pain elicited by those memories.

The air seemed shift and he was instantly still, listening… _danger?_ He couldn't be certain…the movement was just inside his room. It diverted his attention before he could delve too deeply into his own emotional pain.

"You shouldn't move, brother mine." Mycroft's words were a statement of the obvious and Sherlock found his normal irritation levels rising slightly. His brother knew how much he hated that kind of benign chatter. Was it his sole purpose in life to continually remind Sherlock of just how much more _Mycroft_ knew than his younger brother?

Sherlock has always thought that if one was going to speak, then they should attempt to improve the silence, not fill it with further inane drivel. He chose not to shift again and simply waited for his brother to explain what had happened. Mycroft loved to _explain_ things to Sherlock. For once, the younger man was okay with this obnoxious side of his older brother, because to be completely honest the whole event was more than slightly fuzzy. Access to his mind palace was still very limited and that particular room appeared to be dead-bolted from the inside.

When Mycroft chose to irritatingly silent, Sherlock sighed loudly and attempted to use his vocal cords, "Wh…at hap…nd?" He swallowed the emotional words that he was desperate to ask. _What if he didn't come? What if John isn't here…was never here?_

Mycroft's feet shifted in a nervous way. It was a habit that he'd developed in primary school; finally, he sighed, "You very nearly died, Sherlock. That's what happened. That _reptile_ , Culverton nearly choked the life from you." His brother's words choked off and there was a long pause before he continued, his voice a bit more steady now. "He has been using that hospital of his as a his own personal _murder castle_." Another pause broke his explanation up and Sherlock wished he could actually _see_ what his brother was concealing in the silence.

Slowly he continued, "He came very close to adding you to his list. A very long list of people that have checked into the hospital, but do not check out." Mycroft bit off the final word, anger finally working its way into his words.

Sherlock nodded once in understanding, the movement hurt, a lot.

He sank into silence as he considered what he'd been told, finding that he couldn't move away from one overwhelming thought. The one that was burning a hole in his brain, "John?" he asked hoarsely.

His brother waited so long to answer that the younger Holmes felt his fears tighten around his heart and his throat bob with emotions he didn't have the energy to control.

 _John had chosen to leave him then_ …Sherlock hadn't realized just how much _hope_ he'd been harboring. Not that he blamed the doctor. John had simply lost too much at the junkie's hands.

So many things…he'd done so many things that he regretted. He'd used John as bait on more occasions than he cared to admit. He'd lied to his friend. Again, that had happened so often that Sherlock wondered if John just assumed he was lying whenever he opened his mouth at this point. He'd faked his own death sending John into a year of hell that Sherlock had only understood recently. Because it had only been with the loss of his wife that John had utterly removed himself from the younger Holmes's life. And it had been crushing.

The death of John's beloved wife had been the final straw and now there was simply nothing left. John didn't have it in him to forgive the arrogance that gotten Mary killed. _That's okay, John. I can't forgive it either._ Anguish washed over Sherlock in a tidal wave of heart-wrenching loss that refused to allow him to breathe, let alone speak; he dropped back into the _silence_.

Mycroft watch his brother's suffering with a heavy heart. _Sherlock, I tried to tell you. I tried to warn you…caring, is not an advantage._ The _darkness_ had drawn the dark-haired man back in and the room became alarmingly quiet as he suffered quietly.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's soft voice startled him and he jerked in surprise when his brother's hand ghosted over his right hand. "John is here."

The pain that had ricocheted through him when he'd moved faded and whatever he'd about to say died on his parched lips at the revelation. _John was here. He didn't abandon me…_

"Where?" he whispered. Forcing the word past both the lump and the pain that had now set up permanent residence in his throat.

In typical Mycroft fashion, he released a long-suffering sigh and launched into a more in-depth explanation of the events over the past few days.

Sherlock listened in silence as the extent of Culverton's murder operation was laid out. Ripples of shock coursed through him as his brother told him about the doctor's frantic attempts to save him at the last minute. The injury to John's shoulder when he'd _broken_ down the locked door; and the horror when he'd realized just how close he'd come to being too late. Finally, he explained that Lestraude's men had arrested the murderer and he'd been taken to Scotland Yard for processing.

A whoosh of air and Sherlock knew that they were no longer alone. He was glad for the distraction. He needed just a few seconds to comprehend the unalienable fact that it seemed he hadn't _lost_ John.

Footsteps bustled into the room, halting near the foot of his bed. A quickly mumbled conversation with Mycroft and then the nurse, Sherlock assumed, adjusted something next to his elbow and he felt the warmth of morphine spread across his mind and body like a colorful fog, numbing the pain every place it touched.

His brother droned on for some time and Sherlock eventually found his thoughts wandering as the morphine dulled and finally slowed the rapid whirling of his mind. He wasn't sure when it happened, the exact moment that he'd drifted off into the blissful silence of sleep. But it was the first time since Mary's death that he was able to sleep without the haunting nightmares punctuated by John's anguished cries.

221B 221B

John glared daggers at the doctor; the one that had denied his repeated requests to visit Sherlock. When he'd first come to, the excuse had been his shoulder. So John had bit back his desperate need to see his friend. But then the surgery to repair his arm had been successful and they still hadn't conceded to his wishes. _Complete and utter rubbish!_ The surgery had been long and complicated. Apparently, John had managed to break the scapula, fracture his collarbone and tear all the tendons holding his arm to his body. But he'd certainly had worse…or at least was the story he would be telling himself when the pain begins waking him at night, again.

He had swum back to consciousness in the tiny recovery room with no widows. The groggy, confused feelings coursing through him compelled John to ignore his doctor's advice and try to get up. The damn _doctor_ had then seen fit to put him back to sleep, in order to aid him in recovering from the anesthesia of surgery.

John's medical mind was currently wondering exactly how that worked? They were waiting for him to wake up and then they put him back to sleep, in order to wait for him to wake up? _What the hell kind of logic was that?_

His gaze swept the small sterile room and he shifted to alleviate the itching that was just beneath his skin. He grimaced as his shoulder lit up with pain. "Son of a bitch." He swore.

Luckily the creak of his opening door stole his attention, blue eyes flashed over to the tall figure staring at him. Mycroft Holmes stood in the doorway like a spectre, his expression masked, fingers dangling loosely on the door handle. Dread blossomed along John's heart as he gulped back the surly comment that had been perched on the tip of his tongue. He knew his own face was an open book and it was obvious that the older Holmes must have read it, because he immediately stepped into the room and gently closed the door. John prayed that he wouldn't have to, once again, bear witness to the death of Sherlock Holmes. He'd already done that…

The taller man sighed, "He's alive, John."

John blinked slowly as the information spread through him like a balm on his tattered soul. Those words quelled the fear that had stolen his very thought processes.

For a moment he wasn't sure he would find his voice, eventually he did. "How is he?'

Mycroft's eyebrows lifted dramatically and he shrugged, "As well as can be expected." The older Holmes studied the army doctor's complex reaction to Sherlock's survival with a mixture of both curiosity and respect. "You saved his life." He added simply.

Moments, or it could have been years, passed before John realized what he'd just been told.

Slowly, it occurred to John, that Mycroft had believed he and Sherlock had been _finished_ after Mary's death. Had it really been so obvious to everyone but John? How could he have thought that no one would notice? "Yes." A painful thought flashed through his head. _You 'were' finished._ He'd had no intention of ever coming back to 221B, or the man that resided there. And yet, John had not known the events that would rebuild that shattered bridge; allowing him to find his way back to his friend.

Mycroft's face shifted and something that almost resembled fondness flitted across his features. "Thank you." The sentiment was soft, not at all the way he generally spoke to the army doctor…or anyone else for that matter. _Except on occasion, Sherlock._

John's right hand twisted the white cotton blanket, which was currently pooled around his hips, into tiny-coiled springs. The tension he was feeling finding a strange outlet as, internally, he scrambled for something to say. Some way to respond to the brother of the man he'd saved. John wondered if, there had ever been a time, when even for a moment, he would have actually let Sherlock die.

The devastating ache the very _thought_ sparked, instantly answered his internal question. He _could_ not have let the obstinate, over-bearing, and downright rude consulting detective die, because John could not imagine life without him.

His stormy blue gaze lifted to meet Mycroft's keen assessing eyes. The older Holmes stared at him for a long time, like he was working something out, gauging the doctor's reactions to everything that had happened. He was waiting…

Gathering his courage and what little strength he had, John answered the other man's unasked question. "I could _never_ let him die. Not like that…he…" Emotions choked off John's words and he glanced away in order to collect himself. To the other man's credit, he remained silent. Slowly John regained control and continued softly, "He didn't deserve that. He did not _kill_ Mary." It was barely a whisper, but it expressed every emotion he was struggling to contain.

Mycroft lifted an eyebrow and his eyes lingered, softening a bit. "No. He did not."

It was clear where his loyalties lie and they did not lie with the doctor. Not that John had thought they would. The man that literally _was_ the British government had thrown his unrelenting support behind a certain sarcastic, dark, curly-haired detective a long time ago, and that was never going to change.

"Is he still—" The question was but a whisper of the emotional currents breaking against John's heart.

An underlying sense of desperation made it impossible for the posh man standing over John to ignore. "Blind?" He supplied evenly.

John nodded weakly.

"Yes. No changes there."

John had feared that was the case, but a small part of him had _hoped_ he might be wrong, that all his years as a doctor had lied to him and that in this one instant there could be another outcome. His pained eyes flickered to the closed door and clouded with frustration. "They won't let me see him."

Mycroft tilted his head to the side, narrowing his eyes and folding his arms. John could feel the skeptical gaze assessing him in a way that made the injured man feel more ashamed of his part in Sherlock's current condition. More than he already did…which was impressive, because John was certain he would never forgive himself for what he'd done to Sherlock in the morgue. As the memories played across his thoughts, John found he couldn't lift his eyes to meet Mycroft's expression. The taller man finally moved around the bed so that he was standing directly in front of John.

The crushing silence lingered and the doctor wished that the elder Holmes would simply say what he had to say and leave.

Eventually, the other man spoke, "I will see to that." With that Mycroft Holmes spun on his heel and left. John's heart was still reeling in the silence of his darkened hospital room.

He wasn't sure what Mycroft had meant by that, but he desperately hoped that it would result in at least a short visit to the consulting detective's private hospital room.

221B 221B

After Mycroft's departure, Sherlock sank into himself. He didn't know how long he spent drifting before the rain that was pelting his window drew him back. He found himself wishing desperately that he could _see_ the way, he knew, it would be running it rivulets down the uneven panes of glass.

The random paths chosen by falling water, and the way it always seemed to find the path of least resistance had always fascinated him. Only now, all he had to analyze were his memories. What good was perfect recall when one could no longer add to the mural of one's life? Sherlock sighed, turning away from the disheartening pitter-patter of the rain.

He wasn't sure what the future held, not only for him, but also for John and Rosie. Because John's life was now more than just his, he was responsible for the future of his and Mary's child. And Sherlock was responsible for them…

The tightness in his chest loosened a bit as he considered what Mycroft had told him. His brother had revealed that the doctor had been the one to save Sherlock's life. That it had been _John_ that had thrown caution to the wind, racing to save the cracked out consulting detective from his own flawed plan. And the sheer faith, in Sherlock, that that had taken was staggering. His breathing hitched just as the air in the room shifted slightly and the soft swish of the door alerted Sherlock that someone had entered.

He slid his eyelids apart, more out of habit than expectation. His left eye barely parted and he blinked several times when there was a slight shift within the darkness. He blinked a few times but as suddenly as it had come, the _blip_ was gone. He felt the sudden flair of hope slip away as quickly as it had come.

"Sherlock?" John's thick voice was perhaps that last one that Sherlock had expected to hear. _Well, maybe not the_ last, _but damn close._

While he now knew that John would never have let him die, not intentionally at least, Sherlock hadn't expected the doctor come visit any time soon either. When he didn't immediately answer, John released a pent up breath and Sherlock heard a chair slide across the tile only to settle near the head of his bed.

Sherlock's vacant pale gaze stared straight ahead until he heard John settle into the chair. Heat and sudden pressure near his right arm alerted him that John's hands rested near his elbow. For several moments Sherlock was worried that John would change his mind and leave without saying anything. The heavy silence seemed to stretch out into forever.

Finally, "I wanted to see you. I asked for three days…and now I don't know what to say." John admitted quietly. His voice tightly constrained with roiling emotions; emotions that he typically avoided at all costs. But his inability to share how he was feeling had been part of what had led to the fracturing of their friendship.

Sherlock forced himself to remain silent. He too had wanted to speak. To tell his friend that he was sorry. That he hated the loss John had suffered at his hands, but he was even worse with emotions than his struggling friend and he owed the doctor an apology for not trusting him with the truth about his plans for Culverton.

John inhaled, "I saw Mary's message." He said softly.

Sherlock turned his head, just a bit and instantly regretting it when his swollen flesh reminded him that he'd nearly had his throat crushed by a serial killer. He blinked back the stinging tears of pain. He remained silent, not trusting his own voice to remain steady.

"I know he nearly killed you, so I don't expect a lot of conversation from you" John's gaze dropped to the vibrant colors crisscrossing Sherlock's slender neck. "…But you should probably know that he won't be killing anyone ever again. He's being questioned and detained by Scotland Yard." John suddenly found that once he'd started talking the whole story just slipped past his lips. "Lestrade was livid when he arrived and realized what was happening. I'm fairly certain that Smith didn't make it to the station without some bruises of his own." A bit of satisfaction worked its way into John's tone as he remembered tackling the smarmy little man, feeling his body collide with the hard tile floor.

They descended back into silence and Sherlock hoped that John wasn't done talking yet. He'd missed their conversations.

The consulting detective's whirlwind into the drug-induced madness had been starkly contrasted by John's confinement of all emotions, save rage. Neither man could truly understand what the other had gone through. They only knew that there was no chance at recovery, for either of them, if they didn't work out a way to cross the gaping chasm of betrayal, hurt and guilt that now separated them.

Sherlock swallowed, determining that he would rather risk everything than not regain what he had lost.

"I'm sorry, John." the whispered apology was so soft that John barely heard it.

Sherlock waited, his chest tight with fear that it wouldn't be enough. _It wasn't enough, it would never be enough_ , but if John happened to be willing then Sherlock would spend the rest of his life atoning for his past mistakes. _And any future ones you are sure to make._ A voice, that suspiciously like Mycroft, said.

Tears were burning at the back of Sherlock's eyes as he continued to stare straight ahead. He supposed he could have stopped the tears, shoved the annoying emotions, the sentiment, deep down and ignored the rush of overwhelming feelings that threatened to undo his life's work.

But wasn't that what had gotten him into this whole mess in the first place? Ignoring the people around him, the ones that were best able to interpret his more ridiculous compulsions? Mary had tried to warn him about Vivian Norberry, but Sherlock had been so arrogantly positive that he knew better…as it turned out, he had never been more wrong in his life.

A lump formed in his throat, making him swallow hard, ignoring the burning pain as he slowly turned his head toward where John was sitting. The other man remained completely silent and if Sherlock hadn't heard him breathing in ragged little pants; he would have assumed that John had disappeared. "…for Mary…I am so very sorry…" Sherlock clarified brokenly.

John's head snapped up and he stared down at his friend. The normally _emotionless man_ was blinking back tears, his normally steady baritone wavering with barely controlled sorrow.

Physically, the doctor felt something tear loose inside him. The anger drained away, leaving him feeling exhausted and lonely. He had spent so much energy raging against the unfairness of it all. And yet as he found himself staring down into the unfocused blue-grey eyes of the world's only consulting detective, he found he no longer had the energy to sustain rage. More than that, he no longer wanted to.

John had missed his friend with the same deep penetrating ache that he would always miss Mary. And while he knew that the wounds of Mary's death would never fully heal, he believed that, with time, he and Sherlock would be okay.

His fingers shook as he stretched his left hand toward the shuddering figure lying beside him. John blinked back his own tears as his hand landed gently on Sherlock's pale arm. He felt the muscles tense, but only for a moment before he turned his hand over and John grasped it in an iron-like grip.

Only now did Sherlock tilt his head in John's direction, his sightless teary eyes, somehow, landing on precisely where the doctor sat. "She said I had to _save you._ "

John's fingers tightened. "You did."

TBS…

 **Author's Note** _: The Epilogue will tie all of the angst and hurt up in a very satisfactory little bow. I hope you will take the time to let me know what you thought of the chapter? Bromance galore in this one. This is the one episode where I actually felt that the intensity of the emotions that had torn these two men apart would have to be paralleled in intensity with the friendship/deep devotion (and dare I say it…love) that would eventually drive them back together._

 **Take a moment and review…a shameless request, I know.**


	11. Consequences

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 11**

 _Consequences_

John lifted tired eyes toward the softly ticking clock on the wall before running his fingers through his hair. He ignored the sharp radiating ache of his right shoulder, stretching lightly through his ribs to alleviate the stiffness of inactivity. Pulling out a prescription bottle, he tossed back two white pills before grimacing and washing them down with cold coffee. His time in the Army had diluted any snobbish tendencies he may have once had when it came to the dark bitter alternative to his beloved tea.

The low rumble of an approaching storm resounded through the yellow room, pulling his gaze toward the small window near the "Out of Order" vending machine. Another weather system was moving into the area and from the deep crackling sounds of that last rolling thunderclap, he knew it was going to be a rather strong one.

He settled deeper into his seat, careful not to place any undue strain on his immobilized right arm before continuing to stare blankly at the rotating static of the television. He was barely able to see the people moving back and forth, it appeared to be some infomercial from the states. It played silently in the background and he wondered when it had been muted? Or had it already been muted when he'd come in? He couldn't really remember...

His eyes found their way back up to the clock and the part of him that refused to be anything other than a doctor, sparked with irritation. _The bloody hands haven't moved?!_ Time seemed to have stopped or the damn batteries had run out, huffing, he looked back at the telly. There was nothing for him to do, but to wait. Had it really only been yesterday that he had sat next to Sherlock's bed baring his soul?

An uncomfortable shudder rippled through him as he considered all that he had done in the past weeks and how terrifyingly close he had been to ripping the younger Holmes out of his life forever. It had taken an act from beyond the grave to remind the former army doctor of exactly what he would lose if he were not very very careful. Despite the revelations he'd made to the thin man, that in spite of everything remained his best friend, John could still feel the tendrils of resentment and anger stalking beneath the surface of his own acceptance; that this was John's life now...simply _dealing_ with existence.

A page rang out through the hospital as some doctor that John neither knew nor cared about was summoned to "Imaging".

Stretching his sore muscles, he repositioned himself again. The dull throbbing ache in his shoulder was not allowing him to sit comfortably and the hard, cheaply covered chairs weren't offering much in the way of support. His gaze flickered back to the clock and he sighed in irritation, the hands had only moved forward two minutes.

He shifted again and his shoulder lit up in pain causing him to gasp involuntarily.

"You should really be in your room."

Greg Lestrade's voice carried easily through the empty waiting room, he pushed the door closed after him before stepping toward the cheap television clicking it off. He glanced around, then walked toward the coffee machine. Lestrade's eyes shifted over his shoulder catching John's attention in a silent question. _Do you want some?_

Shaking his head, "I'm good." John answered evenly.

The detective inspector nodded and after fixing himself a cup moved toward to row of chairs across from the silent doctor. The room was unbearably silent for a few moments as he sipped at the blessedly hot liquid.

Slowly John lifted his head only to stare silently at his friend. Greg looked haggard. He'd lost weight. His salt and pepper colored hair seemed to have gained more salt than pepper in recent months. But it was his eyes that really caught the injured man's attention. Lestrade looked…well, he looked so very very tired. Dark circles gave his normally bright eyes an almost bruised look.

Alarm bells clanged inside John's head and he sat up a bit straighter, studying the declining visage of the policeman. "You okay mate?" he asked.

"Just tired." Greg answered with a shrug. His eyes shifted to just above John's left shoulder for a moment before drifting back down to stare at the doctor. "Any news?"

"No. They took him into surgery an hour ago."

The officer nodded, taking another slow sip of the rapidly cooling coffee, "How long does this type of surgery usually take?"

John inhaled sharply, he didn't know a lot about neurology; and even less about the surgical aspects of the specialty. "I don't know." he admitted.

Greg looked away again taking another sip of his coffee. They slipped back into the uncomfortable silence that seemed to be strangling the entire room of anything remotely resembling air. John's gaze focused more sharply on the other man, waiting for an explanation of whatever was obviously keeping the detective inspector up at night.

When he could stand the silence no longer, he ventured forward. "Greg what's going on with you, mate?"

Brown eyes flashed up, colliding with the stormy blue-gray of the army doctor's in alarm. "It's nothing. Just work stuff." he stammered quickly.

A bit too quickly. "Work _stuff_? Really, Greg?" John's tone clearly announced that he did not believe that this was just _work stuff_. "You can talk to me. You know that right?" He continued softly. To be perfectly honest, the doctor would do anything to get his mind off the surgery taking place two floors up from where he now sat.

Greg shook his head, quickly rising and turning toward the coffee machine, "Yeah, I know. But, really it's nothing…promise. Just had some unexpected complications with a case, that's all." He poured another cup, dropping the sugar cubes into the Styrofoam and then stirring the concoction with a plastic swizzle stick. He stirred a bit longer than was strictly necessary, he just needed a moment. He didn't immediately turn back toward Sherlock's best friend, because he didn't know how to tell John about this one…how to reveal that things had not been as cut and dried on this _case_ as they had first appeared. The whole incident was too high profile, not even the great Mycroft Holmes would be able to stop what was coming.

After collecting his thoughts, he schooled his expression onto one that revealed none of the turmoil he felt before turning back to the questioning expression on John's face. "Let's just worry about getting Sherlock healthy, yeah? I can deal with this one without the great Holmes and Watson."

John watched him for a moment before finally nodding and allowing his gaze to drift away. The shadow that was Greg moved, dropping tiredly into his wooden chair before they settled back into the silence.

Two hours later the doctor made an appearance in the doorway causing both men to jump to their feet. John hissed as he was reminded that he was still injured. He caught Greg's look of concern just as the doctor launched into an explanation of the surgery.

"First off, let me say he is resting and doing well. The surgery was successful in that we removed the blood clot that was pressing on the optic nerve. There was some scar tissue that had built up around the area over the last few weeks, which we also removed." The surgeon glanced at John, a look that begged for the army doctor's understanding past across the older man's face before he continued, "As you know, with any surgery there are risks and this one was no different."

John felt his throat tighten and his stomach flip as he began to understand the tactical way the surgeon was explaining the surgery to them. Something had happened in that operating room; something that the surgeon did not want to tell them about. The knot of unease unfurled in his gut and he forced himself to stay quiet, waiting for the proverbial "other shoe" to drop. Greg must have come to the same conclusion because he looked over at John, his face blank as he too waited.

"There were some complications on the table. Mr. Holmes's heart rate elevated very quickly causing a dangerous spike in his blood pressure. This put additional strain on the already damaged blood vessels surrounding the large optic nerve. As I said, we were able to remove the clot, but there is some damage to the surrounding tissues. We won't know for certain until he wakes up, but there is a possibility that his vision may not return for some time…if at all." The surgeon offered a sympathetic smile before turning toward the door.

And there it was. The news that could break the greatest man that John had ever known. He knew that deep down Sherlock had harbored a desperately secret hope that his eyesight would return after the surgery. That with it's return there was a way for them to return to the way things had been before…before Mary's death. Before the morgue... John gulped back the rising emotions, refusing to acknowledge the burning sensation just behind his eyes. He tried not ask the question that had been chipping away at him. _I have to know…_ he thought.

"Doctor?" John called just before the man could close the door behind his retreating form; he turned back toward the two men. "The clot. Were you able to isolate what caused it?"

Greg's heart started to hammer inside his chest. He knew where this was going and he hated what this could do to his friend. He watched as one of the most honorable men he had ever known struggled with his guilt as he waited for either absolution or condemnation.

"Yes." The elderly doctor's voice dipped with sympathy as he responded.

"And…?"

The surgeon sighed and turned back toward the injured man, "Blunt force trauma."

John's face fell and he sank back onto the chair, his eyes going blank for a moment before he swallowed thickly. "Like the kind when someone is beaten." It wasn't a question, but a fact. Sherlock's current condition _was_ his fault.

"The drugs that were in his system at the time didn't help matters—" the elder doctor tried to soften the obviously painful blow that had evidently come with his revelation of the facts.

"But this would not have happened if he hadn't been beaten into a coma." John interrupted softly.

The surgeon looked over to Greg for help, but the inspector was just staring at John, sympathy written in every line of his face. He had nothing to offer the man in the way of _help_.

With a sigh and a heavy heart the doctor shook his head. "No. It would not have happened without the head trauma. And that was caused by the coma...and you already know what caused that."

Greg watched as the heavy weight of responsibility settled squarely on the thin shoulders of an already broken man. He seemed to age ten years in the space of moments. "Thank you for telling me." he replied softly.

John was moderately aware of the door opening and closing but not much else. For all of Sherlock's faults, and he had many, he had never physically beaten someone into blindness or disability. So what did that mean for John? What kind of person was he? He really had forgiven Sherlock for his part in Mary's death, but he wasn't sure that he could forgive himself for the part he now knew he played in his friend's current condition. He had taken something from Sherlock that could not be given back...

With agonizing slowness he lifted his tortured gaze toward the detective inspector expecting to see nothing but anger and disgust, instead he saw only pain and sympathy. It was almost worse than the anger. John didn't know what he was supposed to do now. He knew that there would be repercussions for his part in Sherlock's injuries; there _had_ to be repercussions, because that was the only way that John would ever find a way to forgive _himself_.

"What now?" he asked weakly.

Greg sank down into the chair and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, the empty cup hanging limply in his hands. "I don't know." he admitted.

John snorted derisively, his anger finding a tiny outlet, "What would normal protocol be in a case like this?"

The officer lifted his eyebrows and shook his head. "Normally? Prison for aggravated assault and…"

"And?" John pressed angrily; he had to know.

Lestrade sighed, "The nature of Sherlock's injuries were severe enough to warrant an attempted homicide conviction." It gave him no pleasure being this honest with John. And right now the only people that knew the truth about Sherlock's condition were seated in this room. Excluding the surgeon from that of course. And the inspector knew that the physician would be required by law to report what he'd found during that surgery. Which meant that someone was going to find out and if Greg ignored what he'd just heard inside this room? He would be an accessory after the fact for covering up the crime. Not to mention he'd lose his badge and probably wind up in the cell next to John.

John was silent for a long time, the only sounds in the room were the incessant ticking of the clock and the ragged breathing of the two men. Suddenly, the smaller man lurched to his feet, having obviously come to some sort of decision. "I want you to arrest me." He said evenly.

Shock wasn't a strong enough word to express what went through the detective inspector at the unexpected request. He found himself staring blankly at John, almost like he hadn't really heard him.

"Greg. Did you hear me?"

A few moments passed, "I heard. Still having trouble believing."

John smiled; it wasn't a true smile though. It didn't reach his normally expressive eyes; it just sort of hung there on the smaller man's tanned face. "I want you to arrest me. For what I did to Sherlock…" The false smile slid away leaving only despair and guilt. "There has to be consequences. For some things a price has to be paid." He stepped toward the stunned detective. "I've been around his stubborn ass long enough to know that this is one of those times. The case is too high profile… _Sherlock's_ too high profile. There's no way this doesn't get out to the media and I can't let anyone else pay for what I did."

"John…"

He held up his good arm stopping the words of his friend, shaking his head at the same time. "No, Greg. I can't just get away with things the way Sherlock can. I'm not built the same. I need some semblance of order in this chaotic world. It's the only way I know how to function." He swallowed back the tidal wave of emotions that were now threatening to overwhelm him. After a few moments he continued, "I killed the cabbie." John admitted to killing the man the same way he ordered take out. No emotion. No reservations, just a blank set of eyes staring at the detective inspector.

Lestrade's gaze snapped up, his eyes widening the instant he understood the implications of what John was doing. Here in this room, he was confessing to murder. "John, please don't do this." he begged the other man to let this go.

John's blue eyes narrowed accusingly, "You knew." It wasn't a question, but there was surprise layered through those two words.

Greg scrubbed his hands through his hair, leaving it disheveled. "Of course I bloody well knew!" he ground out through between clenched teeth. "I'm very good at my job, John. I told you that the day we met. Sherlock had given me enough to go on before _he_ realized that it was you that shot the cabbie."

John's mouth popped open and shut a few times before he asked, "Why would you let me get away with it? I murdered someone. Someone's father. Someone's son...it was cold-blooded _murder_." This time there were questions lacing through the condemning statement.

"Because you did it for _Sherlock_. You killed someone to save his life. And it wasn't like he was a _good man_. He'd already killed four other people. Who knows how many more would have fallen victim to his sick little game."

The room seemed to shrink, it felt tight, constrictive, like it was sucking the very air from John's body. He stared at the other man in shock. So he _wasn't_ the only one that had developed an unhealthy attachment to the consulting detective. John knew what had led to his, but he found himself curious what had triggered that same level of devotion from the normally stoic detective inspector from Scotland Yard.

Greg sighed heavily, his hands dropping to his sides. "...he's _better_ with you around." The smaller man's steely blue eyes narrowed as he readied himself for denial. Lestrade lifted his hands plaintively, "No John, he is. He's a better version of himself because of you. Think about it. Do you really think he would have given a rat's ass about why Mary died seven years ago?"

John's jaw twitched with anger, it surged through him at the mere mentioning of Mary's death.

"Wait, listen to me on this. John, Sherlock would have solved the mystery of that case and it wouldn't have mattered that someone else died at the end of it. It was all about beating the criminal. Being _better_ and _smarter_ than they were. Because the _case_ was all that mattered to him. For Christ's sake, he barely acknowledged his own flesh and blood let alone actual people. The ones that were going about their lives somewhere on the outskirts of his latest case." Greg shook his head in frustration at the blank look on the doctor's face. He set the cup on the ground between his feet before continuing. "Sherlock could have gone either way. He was so fucking close to becoming exactly the same as Moriarty. To be honest I was dreading the day that I would have to arrest him and then try to make a conviction stick. But then you limped into Molly's lab, and you…well, you woke him up. He couldn't exist in his self-imposed world of indifference and deductive reasoning anymore; he had to come out into the messy, complicated world with the rest of us." He looked over at John, hoping that any of this was getting through to him. " _You_ did that, John."

The words impacted John's heart and soul like a nuclear bomb and he couldn't help the warmth that surged through him. He'd been so close to Sherlock for so long that he'd failed to register any of these changes in his friend. He reflected back, trying to determine when any of this had happened. The pool case still haunted his nightmares; the memory of standing with a bomb strapped to his chest, knowing that he was going to die and praying that he didn't take Sherlock's obnoxious ass with him had stolen many nights from the doctor. But looking back, that had been the first time he'd seen a real change in Sherlock. The younger man had looked shocked, the betrayal clearly evident in his blue eyes when he'd turned around, his hand still waving the flash drive in the air, and recognized John.

For the first time he had gotten an unrestricted look at _Sherlock_. At the emotional being that the self-proclaimed sociopath get tightly locked down under arrogance and surly retorts. He had looked very young and extremely vulnerable, as he'd tried to figure out the latest shift in a game he had believed he understood. But then that look had morphed into one anger and fear when he realized that _John_ was now part of the twisted _game_ he had been playing with Moriarty.

John had seen more emotional resonance from the tall thin man that night than he had in all the prior months he'd been living with him. True, sharing a flat wasn't exactly the same thing as being good friends with someone, but John had thought they'd become something _like_ friends. He was torn away from his musings when the memory of a broken, bleeding Sherlock shattered through him and he shuddered.

He could not simply allow what he'd done to be condoned by those around him. John needed help. It had started in Afghanistan; the way his anger had become an uncontrollable rage was not okay; he was not okay. And even though he understood how much Sherlock meant to him, he knew that this was not over, not yet. It might not happen for a while, years even, but someday John would again slip beneath the waters of his rage. He couldn't take the chance that Sherlock would once again find himself on the receiving end of that blistering fury.

The only way that he knew to fix what had been broken within himself was to realign his world. Bring order to the churning chaos that was destroying who he _wanted_ to be. He pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to alleviate the headache that was now pounding through his skull. He rubbed at tired eyes as he considered his daughter. He knew that Rosie would be taken care of. Between Greg, Mrs. Hudson, Molly and Sherlock, the little girl would want for nothing. She would be loved and cared for while John attempted to find redemption. He had to do this, not only for himself, but for her. She deserved to have at least one of her parents be emotionally stable...and since Mary was...it would have to be him.

In a moment of heart-wrenching honesty, he lifted pained eyes toward his friend. "Please do this for me, Greg." He whispered hoarsely. "Please, help me fix _this_." he pointed at his chest, directly above his heart.

If Greg's own heart could have shattered in his chest at the broken plea in those words, it would have. The inspector dropped his gaze to the floor allowing his eyes to track the lint and dust that stretched out beneath his feet. "He won't allow it." He finally managed.

" _He_ won't have a choice. By the time he's released I'll be inside and there won't be anything he can do about it."

Lestrade took a deep breath and straightened a crease in his trousers absently. "He might not be able to, but Mycroft can."

John nodded. "Let me take care of Mycroft." His eyes darted back up to the clock; it was after nine pm. "This time tomorrow I'll meet you at Scotland Yard, yeah?"

When Greg didn't immediately respond, John stood, dropping to his knees and slowly closing the few feet separating them. "Greg, please. This is the only way I know where I come back from this." He sank down, resting his ass against his folded legs, begging his friend to look at him. To truly _see_ what he was asking for.

Finally the detective inspector lifted agonized brown eyes, "Fine." he whispered with resignation. "But for the record, I hate this."

John smiled, really _smiled_ for the first time in months. "I know you do." Slowly, he pulled himself back to his feet. Staggering a bit as the blood rushed back into his legs. "Thank you." John said before turning toward the door, he needed to be there when Sherlock woke up and then he had a lot of preparations to make.

"How am I supposed to explain this to everyone?" Greg's voice broke when he considered what their friends would think of him after tomorrow.

"You can't tell anyone about this." John stated firmly. He knew what an incredibly unfair burden he was placing on his friend, but it had to be this way. "They can't know. _He_ can't know."

"They're going to hate me." Greg stated. There was a finality to the statement that nearly had John reconsidering his plan. _Nearly..._

John, who had been reaching for the door again, turned back toward the taller man. He stepped closer so he could squeeze Greg's shoulder in support. "I promise that I'll explain everything to them." He waited for a response, his own heart pounding chaotically inside his chest; an almost imperceptible nod was his only answer before the inspector moved around him toward the door. "How long?" John asked.

The officer stopped, but didn't turn back. For a few moments John was worried that the other man wouldn't understand his question or that he would refuse to answer it. "At least five years."

John's heart lurched at that. "Oh…"

221B 221B

Sherlock hated waking up after anesthesia. He always had. He'd had an attack of appendicitis when he'd been twelve and the dreams that had plagued him in that floating, timeless realm between awareness and bliss had been both confusing and frightening. He'd been trapped inside a rock-walled chamber, his legs submerged in water, surrounded by nothing but the inky darkness. That dream had held him hostage throughout the very dark days that followed.

He'd been fourteen the first time he'd tried drugs. He'd been trying to rid himself of the uncontrollable fears that continually woke him every time he closed his eyes. The first few times he could have sworn that Mycroft had been sitting by his bedside, watching him with guarded worried eyes. But then he'd started waking up alone, so alone. Nothing he did seemed to allow him to escape the bitter cold of that descending darkness.

During a particularly bad patch, he'd mouthed off to some boys a year ahead of him in school, to say that they hadn't appreciated his _deductions_ was a bit of an understatement.

It had been Mycroft that had eventually found him. They'd jumped him on his way home from the library. The alley, near the corner teashop, had rarely been occupied and he passed it every day on his way home. The dark confined space under the stone staircase had been just large enough to shove his thin, lanky, unconscious and therefor, pliant form. He had barely registered the cruel laughter as they slammed the wooden door shutting out the light before latching it from the outside.

Sherlock had been fairly certain he was going to die that night; a white-hot pain had eclipsed his every other thought including that of self-preservation and he'd sunk into oblivion. He thought he'd heard his older brother's frantic calls, but he couldn't be certain. And then the warmth had come…the morphine had slid into his veins and it had been, perfect. It had been wonderful, beautiful even and he'd craved the indifference that came with every needle full. That had led to more potent drugs and by the time he was sixteen, he was a full-blown addict. And not just morphine anymore...

It had been during his third stint in a flophouse that his brother had managed to track him down. Sherlock couldn't remember how long he'd been there or what had driven him there. What had made him, once again, disappoint his parents and Mycroft.

Sherlock had allowed awareness to wash across him as he's struggled back from the darkness. He'd known that he was in the hospital; the sterile smell alerted him to that fact before he had managed to pull himself out of the anesthesia. At the time, he'd barely registered where he was or how he'd come to be there. His mother's tearful sniffing as Mycroft told Sherlock that he'd been stabbed in that same flophouse. In that moment a part of him felt irrationally guilty that his brother had had to find him like that, bleeding out on the disgusting filth-encrusted carpets of a drug den. He had briefly considered that if their positions had been reversed he'd be frantic. Not that he attributed that _word_ to Mycroft, but he did know that his brother worried about him, constantly.

Sherlock had tried to convince his extremely irate older sibling that the drug use was more _recreational_ than anything else, but his brother had simply glared at him angrily before striding away, fists clenched at his sides.

What Sherlock had never counted on was the overwhelming pain and the slicing shards of guilt that came with complete sobriety. So he'd chosen the same path he had when Red beard died…he locked it all away. Everything that could hurt him was locked up. All the anguish he felt for never living up to the sterling reputation of his big brother or the high expectations of his parents was shoved down so deep that he all but forgot how to _feel_. And it was in this place between living and dying that he had existed for decades.

Then John Watson had happened…the army doctor with his own demons had dug around inside Sherlock until he had finally unearthed the emaciated emotions and brought them back toward the light.

Sherlock shifted, realizing quickly that he was once again, in hospital. He wracked his brain for a few minutes until the drifting memories settled back into their proper places. Culverton Smith's attempted murder of him, Mary's death, Rosie's beautifully perfect face, John's rage in the morgue and finally, their conversation before Sherlock had been rolled into surgery.

The last memory brought a bit of a smile to his face. At least he still had John.

There was pressure surrounding his head, _bandages_ , he surmised before reaching up and pressing his fingers against his temple. The wrap did not extend down over his eyes, so he wasn't sure what they'd done. But he kept his eyelids pressed tightly together. He desperately wanted to open them. To see if it had worked, but he found himself keeping them closed despite his desire to _know_. What if it didn't work? What if it did? What happens now…?

The quiet 'whoosh' of a door opening diverted his attention momentarily. Soft footsteps padded over to the side of his bed and then a chair squeaked as someone sat down.

"John?" he hazarded, keeping his eyes closed even as he turned his head toward the sounds of the chair.

"Yeah, it's me."

His friend's tone sounded tired and Sherlock wondered if he'd been released from the hospital yet or if John was also getting what was hospital's terrible idea of _good sleep_. It was hard to find any restful version of sleep outside of the medicated variety in a hospital. The staff was constantly in and out of the room throughout the night waking him up just to ask if 'he was _sleeping well?'_. Sherlock really wanted to inform them of the idiocy of that question.

"Just you?' He wondered aloud.

John shifted; the chair creaked again as plastic rubbed against plastic. "Just me." he answered evenly.

The detective could hear the note of tension underscoring his friend's answer. "Are you alright?" he asked.

The other man snorted, "Not hardly." A sigh, "But I will be. How are you?"

The younger Holmes mimicked his snort, "I have yet to ascertain that." He pulled in a breath. "I haven't opened my eyes."

John must have leaned forward, because there was a slight dip in the bed near Sherlock's right elbow. "The surgeon said they were able to remove the clot." he answered the question that the detective had yet to ask.

But as Sherlock listened, he could tell there was something that John wasn't saying. The thin man pressed his lips together in frustration when he found he could no more tell what it was than he could tell if the sun was up or down. "And…?" Agitation rising as he waited for answer.

John remained irritatingly silent for several minutes, "And nothing." He finally managed. "Your eyesight may return immediately or gradually over time. The surgeon didn't know. Anything involving the brain is tricky."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that. What could he say? _No, I don't like those odds; let's do something different?_

The pressure near his elbow lifted away and he held his breath waiting for John to get angry at the situation. What he was not expecting was the gentle, supportive hand that settled on his forearm. "Sherlock, open your eyes."

Fear cascaded through the blind man, "What if it didn't work?" he asked quietly. "John...what happens if this doesn't _ever_ work?" This constant questioning of everything around him was new and now that his emotions had been allowed back to the surface, he couldn't seem to control when they caused his voice to shake or his eyes to burn. Sherlock really did need to get a handle on them…

He heard a deep slow breath being drawn, "If it didn't work…" John stopped talking when his voice broke, struggling to maintain his composure he took a moment before continuing. "If it didn't work, we'll deal with it. All of us will deal with it." He squeezed the pale arm beneath his warm fingers for emphasis. "Sherlock, you are not alone in this. Not now. Not ever." Again, the doctor's words failed him and the younger Holmes could only guess at what was driving the torrent of emotions that were choking his friend into silence. "Whatever happens, please don't ever forget that. You have friends. Not just me, and they all care about you."

Something about the way he said the last part sent an uneasy chill racing through Sherlock. He wanted to ask about it, but decided that this revelation could wait. He needed to solve one mystery at a time…right now; he _needed_ to know if he could see. He lifted his hand, palm up, an invitation that John recognized and quietly accepted. Drawing strength from the best friend that he had ever had, Sherlock slowly peeled his eyelids apart.

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _Don't kill me for the cliffhanger here…but as you can see the story has taken on a direction I hadn't entirely anticipated. So it appears that either there will be a sequel or this is a ways from being finished…haven't decided yet. Obviously, it'll be more AU moving forward. But I wonder if John is the type of person that can just bounce back from something like this. Or if, just like Sherlock, he's becoming more self-aware?_

 **Please take a moment and leave a review…they'll help me decide what fork in the road to take.**


	12. Over My Dead Body

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 12**

 _Over My Dead Body…_

The entire world seemed to stop spinning, staggering to a stop really, as John watched Sherlock gather his courage and slowly force his clenched eyelids apart. He didn't know what would happen in the next twenty seconds, but he knew that he would never abandon his best friend to an uncertain fate. He sighed quietly, allowing the air to fill his lungs as he considered the decision that he'd made earlier. He wasn't wavering on it, but he also wasn't a fool. John understood that Sherlock would not understand his choice. And chances were bang on that he would do _anything_ to put a stop to it.

John wanted to snort at that thought, settling instead for swiping his hand through his normally meticulously styled hair. The feeling of the loose soft stands pulling gently against his fingers alerted him that he would need to get it cut soon. It was far longer than he generally allowed. Although, he had been a bit preoccupied of late.

Sherlock's blue-gray irises appeared through his slightly parted lids and John's breath caught in anticipation. He wanted this work… _no, I need this to work. Sherlock needs this to work._ The prevailing thought invaded his pensive mind and he clenched his hand in an effort to control himself. Their futures were hanging in the balance of this one moment; it felt heavy, laden with both possibility and a hint acceptance.

The clock on the wall ticked away the seconds, John's steady gaze resting unflinchingly on Sherlock's weary eyes. It took a moment for the army doctor to realize that where there had been nothing but vacant stares a few days ago, there was now a bit more focus and Sherlock's gaze was resting in his general direction. Swallowing the quickly developing lump of emotion, John leaned forward.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly.

The eyes flickered and then shifted landing on the figure leaning over the bed. John felt his heart stumble over the frantic pumping of his own blood. _Sherlock is looking at me._ The blood felt like it was pounding inside his brain, waiting for the address to unasked question.

John doesn't feel the need to question further. He chooses instead to wait for his normally hyper-verbal friend to reveal the answer. The sound of the clock and the labored breaths heaving in and out of Sherlock's battered lungs are the only sounds filling the thick silence of the hospital room.

"There's…" Sherlock's voice is thin, reedy and not at all like the normal tremendous power of his baritone. It's barely above a whisper. One shuddering breath….another…and then another pass between his frozen lips before he finally finds the strength to answer John. He swallows, "…light and a shadowy undulating mass, which I can only assume, is you."

The doctor can feel his eyes widen and his breath catch. He stands and leans forward, his weight pressing into the firm mattress near Sherlock's elbow, he's staring; he knows he is staring and yet he can't quite stop himself.

"But you can see?" he asks quickly, his heart now hammering inside his chest like a jackhammer.

Sherlock leans into his pillow trying to put some space between them. John is one of the few people he allows inside his personal bubble, but this is a bit closer than he's comfortable with, even if it is John. It's a sobering thought and one that lets Sherlock know that he is beginning to repair some of the damage he'd done. This reaction is one that he is familiar with; one that he is _comfortable_ with.

John barely catches the slight shift as his friend leans away from his probing eyes. He can feel his lips pull up on one side at the reaction. He takes the hint and leans away, sinking back into the chair near the bed. "Can you make out shapes or just light and dark?"

The black-haired man pinches his eyebrows together as he squints toward where John now sits, his face a mask of concentration. "I am fairly certain that you are wearing a blue jumper today, but I can't see anything more detailed. It's just general shapes and some of the darker colors."

A bubble of laughter erupts from deep inside John and he shakes his head at the concrete proof that Sherlock is not going to be relegated to a life of darkness because of his actions that night in the morgue. He ignored the sardonic expression the other man shoots his way and simply allows the relief to flood through him. He's been so afraid that he destroyed his best friend's life that night that this small victory washes over him in waves of joy.

"Is this funny? I assume for some reason that I cannot fathom…" Sherlock questioned, but there was a lightness to his tone that John had sorely missed over the last few months.

The doctor shook his head with a grin, forcing himself back under control. His hand grasped at the edge of the bed as he tried to keep from falling out of his chair. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. No, this isn't funny, but I can't say that I am unhappy about it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "No, indeed it does not appear that you are." But his expression softened into one of friendly mirth and he too shook his head. After several minutes the two men drifted back into silence, though the atmosphere in the room remained pleasant. "I had fully expected it to fail." The consulting detective finally admitted softly, a confession that cost him no small amount of pride.

"I…" John wondered how to tell his friend that he too had been skeptical about the surgery's chances of working. Too much time had passed since the initial incident and it had been very likely that his optic nerves had been damaged to the point of no return. His friend's dark head tilted, but he did not offer the doctor an out. He'd started this conversation and now he would have to finish it. "I honestly hadn't thought it would work either. Nothing has gone our way for quite some time, Sherlock. So I assumed that this would be another one of those times."

He watched as his words settled heavily on his friend, wiping the easy smirk from his pale face. The other man simply nodded once, then pressed his lips together in contemplation. John hated that he could do this to Sherlock. That he had the ability to halt the man's blindingly fast vocabulary and send him into self-reflection as he considered things John had said. This wasn't something that had existed in the early years of their friendship.

No, as a matter of fact John had barely been able to get Sherlock to shut-up when the situation desperately called for silence. But after the whole scene outside of Charles Magnuson's home…John had no longer felt the need to question where he stood with regard to Sherlock's loyalties. The consulting detective had shot the man in the face because he had _threatened_ John and Mary.

John waited for the debilitating ache of loss to crush him as her name ran through his thoughts and was pleasantly surprised when nothing more than a normal level of grief echoed in those previously broken places. John wasn't sure if this was a result of everything coming full circle, or if it had do with his decision to take responsibility for his part in the tragic events that had led them to this point; either way, he felt oddly in sync with the world.

"John?" the tentative quality to his friend's voice pulled him back into the room. "Are you okay?"

His dark blue eyes shifted to where Sherlock was staring, it was in his general direction though not directly _at_ him. John inhaled, long and slow. "Yeah. Yeah, I really think I am."

For the first time since Mary's death Sherlock Holmes smiled and something dissolved inside the doctor. Whether it was the anger, the blame, or the outright despair that had driven him from his friend's side, he couldn't be sure. But all that the doctor felt now was… _peace_.

221B 221B

Sherlock stare out the window of the taxi as it slowed in front of 221B Baker Street. He was now able to make out the basic outline of the dark door against the white outer bricks. Objects he focused on still lacked definition, but at least he was able to identify the general shapes for what they were. In this case, a door.

He was huddled inside his Belstaff as the cabbie came to a complete stop before waiting for them to exit. Mycroft had tried to force him into taking one of his rubbish luxury cars, but that hadn't been the way Sherlock wanted to return to his and John's flat…to their home. He wanted to keep things as simple and reliable as they had been in the beginning, when it had been just the two of them against the world.

John must have paid the driver because the next thing the consulting detective was aware of; the back door had been pulled open. Sherlock grasps the frame of the vehicle and slowly levers himself up onto slightly unsteady legs. He understood, perhaps better than anyone, just how much damage he'd done to his body over the last months. The detox period had been rackingly painful, as his body had demanded what he had freely offered during those devastating weeks. And then there had been the surgery to repair his sight.

The recovery on that had been a might bit easier and he had been released after only three more sleepless nights in the hospital ward.

He imagined he and John must be a sight, both leaning heavily against one another and taking short stilted steps toward the front door. John's shoulder was still healing, though there was the possibility of at least one more surgery to fully repair the damage the smaller man had done.

A pang of guilt caught Sherlock off guard as they came to a halt on the steps in front of the flat and John dug around for his keys. "Hang on a minute." He said as he removed the support arm from around his taller friend. Sherlock did his best to keep from swaying weakly as his body was forced to bare the entirety of his weight as John fished around in his coat pocket.

The jingle of keys and the return of his steadying presence told the detective of the John's success. Sherlock's gaze dropped and he pulled his lips into a grimace when he could only make out the blobby things that he assumed were the _keys_.

John hadn't even gotten the correct one into the lock before Mrs. Hudson pulled the door open in a flourish of warm welcomes. She ushered the two men inside, helping Sherlock remove his long heavy coat, then placing it on the proper hook near the front door. She repeated the action with John, his own black cargo jacket fitting perfectly on the remaining hook.

The flat smelled like bread and Sherlock inhaled deeply, the comforting wave of _home_ wrapped around him like a warm blanket on a cold winter evening. His eyelids dropped shut and he simply stood at the base of the stairs absorbing the _rightness_ of it all. He was back. John was back. _They_ were back.

John must have been watching him, because he immediately asked, "Penny for your thoughts?"

Mrs. Hudson chuckled. "I doubt they're worth so much."

The tall thin detective allowed a smile to pull at his lips. "I was thinking that everything is now as it should be."

Another mirthful laugh erupted from the tiny landlady and Sherlock shifted his gaze over to where she stood. He could make out the outline of her dark skirt and the frilly puff of her blouse, but he was not able to see the tiny details of the flower pattern or the subtle weave of the woolen material of her skirt. He ignored the slice of frustration at the slow progress his body was making. He wanted to be back to normal _now._

"Almost." John added quietly, sadness layering through his word.

Sherlock turned back toward the shorter man. He wasn't sure what to read in the heavy tone of his friend's voice or the meaning behind the cryptic word. Part of him wanted to ask, but another part of him wondered if he really had a right to? John had forgiven him; of that, the younger Holmes was absolutely certain and yet the doctor had yet to agree that he was moving back into 221B.

This appalling uncertainty was not something that Sherlock was used to and it definitely wasn't something that he enjoyed. With some difficulty he swallowed the question swirling around in his head and instead asked the small landlady, "Would you bring up some biscuits?"

The older woman patted his arm gently and hummed happily, "You needed only to ask." Before turning toward her own flat and the source of the homey smells. "You two just get settled and I'll be right up with a fresh pot and those biscuits." She stopped just before disappearing down the stairs. "It's good to have you both back." She whispered softly.

Sherlock nodded once and then slowly slid his hand along the wall, carefully navigating the narrow staircase. Every uncertain step reminded him of his recent injuries. The slow ache that seemed to encompass his entire torso was less than comfortable and the twisting of his ribcage wasn't helping his concentration.

He glanced up and realized that he was almost to the top of the stairs; the narrow door that led into 221B stood wide open. The stark contrast between the darkened hallway and the bright light from inside were welcoming and he inhaled the simple atmosphere of the flat. He wasn't sure if any place would ever feel as much like home as this place does.

John's cell phone buzzed after glancing down he stepped away to slowly lower himself onto the next set of stairs and take the call, Sherlock blinked as a sudden realization materialized. Any place that included John Watson would feel like home for him. He had spent his life ignoring the depth of his own emotions and yet when it came to John, he found he couldn't do that any more. What was more? He didn't want to.

The self-proclaimed sociopath had never wanted to be in any type of relationship, romantic or otherwise, he'd meant it when he'd told John that he was married to his work. And that was the way he'd always wanted it to be. Yet his friendship with John had become something more akin to the type of bond he shared with Mycroft, impossible to ignore. Although John wasn't nearly as smart as his older brother, which was actually a good thing as far as Sherlock was concerned, John was something just as necessary to the younger Holmes's continued existence.

It was John's heart and his unflinching loyalty that had drawn the guarded, isolated young man from his own self-inflicted solitude. And it had been that same heart, in which Sherlock had resolved, must be saved. Mary's death had put it in danger of shriveling up into a pathetic shadow of its former self and that had been unacceptable to the younger Holmes. At this moment, as Sherlock stepped into the flat, he finally understood that it was _John Watson_ that he needed in his life. The doctor balanced his edges, ones that were rough hewn and jagged, into something smooth and focused.

Sherlock allowed a smile to pull at the corners of his mouth as he slowly made his way toward his chair, sinking carefully into the buttery soft black leather. A low appreciative sigh slipped past his pale lips. He'd missed this chair. His blurry gaze lifted and he realized that John's chair had been moved back into the living area, by someone other than him, as a fuzzy reddish shape sat directly across from him. The sight, blurry or otherwise, sent warmth spreading through him that was both surprising and welcome.

John murmured something from just outside the door before stepping into the flat. He made his way to the chairs and situated himself so that he was able to sit without putting any undue stress on his injured shoulder. "Molly is going to keep Rosie for another few nights."

"Oh, so she won't be here at all?" Sherlock's throat bobbed unexpectedly when an emotion he hadn't been aware of nearly choked of his question.

"She'll be by tomorrow for a bit." John amended easily. "It's just that with this arm I can't exactly hold her or change her diapers and you aren't any better off."

Relief flooded through Sherlock when he realized that it wasn't _because_ of him, Rosie not being here. He hadn't wanted John to give up any more time with his daughter than he already had. And the selfish part of Sherlock really wanted to see the little girl. She was, after all, his Goddaughter and somewhere along the way that had started to _mean_ something to him.

Mrs. Hudson bustled through the room, she poured tea for both of the men, her boys, before setting a fresh hot plate of biscuits on the table near Sherlock's arm. She chattered about how things had been so boring since they'd been away and how the new shop owner downstairs was surrounded by the scandal of his divorce.

It wasn't anything that Sherlock would normally care to know, but it was pleasant to hear the woman drone on about simpler things. His life was complicated and would have driven any normal person insane if they'd tried to piece together what he cared about and what was simply _part_ of the world he existed in. He carefully lifted the tea to his lips allowing the bittersweet aroma to waft over him. It was a pleasant change from the sanitary smells he'd had inflicted upon him lately. He hadn't had anything but the _swill_ that passed as tea while in the hospital, so the change was a welcome one.

Sherlock wanted nothing more than for everything to fall back into its previously designated place. John would retake his place at the consulting detective's side, Mrs. Hudson would go back to _silently_ bringing tea and then ghosting away before Sherlock could catch her and he would begin working on cases again. More than anything, this was what he wanted. And yet he knew that the chances were slim that this would be his reality.

Something had to be coming. The younger Holmes never got what he wanted, there was always a missing piece to that puzzle and that damn piece had to be waiting to drag him back down. He frowned before shoving the introspective feelings into a tiny little closet within his mind palace.

John continued to sit quietly across from him, his own weathered face a blurry reflection of the changes still to come. He finally shifted and Sherlock swallowed the sudden fear that he might be preparing to leave. He was careful to keep all emotion from reaching his face, Sherlock didn't want John feeling like he _had_ to stay at 221B. This needed to be the doctor's decision.

Over the past months Sherlock had made a lot of decisions that should have included the man sitting silently across from him. He no longer felt this was in either of their best interests. The choices that would shape their collective future needed to include them both. It was a new sensation, this belief that they should be on more equal footing moving forward, and one that he wasn't entirely sure he could maintain.

221B 221B

Greg Lestrade leaned against the outer door of the well-known flat on Baker Street. He would give his left arm not to be here. Not under any sort of official capacity and that was what had driven out of his office on an otherwise pleasant Sunday evening.

The story had finally reached the upper levels of the Yard and they wanted it dealt with. He'd debated on contacting Sherlock's older brother, but Mycroft wasn't exactly the friendliest person and Lestrade didn't know him outside of his relationship with Sherlock and John.

He groaned as the first drop rain splattered on his cheek. _Great, as if I needed my day to get any worse? Now I'm going to be wet and out a good friend…probably two…_ The inspector hadn't been happy when he and John had written up the official statement of facts for the night of Culverton Smith's arrest. That truth had led to other truths that should have stayed shrouded in shadows. And now? Greg had been ordered to bring in John Watson.

There had been some discussion about whether or not it could wait until the man had healed up a bit, but Lestrade had lost that argument. He wondered if Sherlock would even speak to him after this? He wasn't sure _he_ would, were he in the younger Holmes's position. John was their friend and they had both done everything they could to save him after Mary's death only to be thwarted by John himself.

Another large raindrop splashed onto his nose and he grimaced before angrily wiping it away.

Truth be told, he had had to save John from doing something stupid when Sherlock had _died_ …just thinking about those years was painful in a way that should have healed by now. Particularly considering that Sherlock had _not_ , in actuality, died that day. But even knowing that the consulting detective was currently alive and _mostly_ well, didn't erase those long months of talking John off the metaphorical ledge. There had only been one time that it had been an _actual ledge_.

He shuddered at the unpleasant memory. It had been about three weeks before John had met Mary and started to re-enter the land of the living. That night would be forever burned into his memory. The night that Greg had gone looking for the ex-army doc because _he_ needed someone to talk to.

Neither of them had been handling the one-year anniversary of Sherlock's death well and the detective inspector had sought out the only person that had known the obstinate sociopath the same way he had. But John hadn't been at the surgery. He hadn't been at 221B. He hadn't been to any of the pubs he normally frequented and the longer Greg searched the more his stomach twisted with rising concern.

It had been nearing two in the morning when Greg had finally gone to the last place in London he wanted to be. St. Barts Hospital. And that was where he found his friend perched on the ledge where Sherlock had ended his own life exactly twelve months before. That image was forever branded into Lestrade's mind. He'd had nightmares for weeks afterward; nightmares in which he'd been too late thus losing another close mate.

His eyes lifted toward the brightly lit windows of the flat's living room and he absently rubbed at his aching eyes. He didn't agree with what John had done, but it was now out of the DI's hands. Greg hadn't been able to refute the doctor's personal statement about Sherlock's condition or the accusations that had been thrown out by the billionaire killer. Smith might be guilty, but he had refused to go down alone. The man he'd nearly murdered was out of his reach, but the small angry doctor? He was a target Culverton could achieve.

So the barristers had gathered everything they had on John Watson and then they'd submitted it to the courts so long as he was not treated with any special considerations. It made Lestrade sick. The look of satisfaction that Smith had worn as he'd watched the inspector move through the Yard with the arrest order in hand.

Slowly he raised his hand and rapped on the door. It was a long slow thirteen steps to the top of the landing where Sherlock's door waited like a looming shadow. Greg inhaled sharply and knocked again.

He heard some rumbling of voices and then the door was slowly pulled open to reveal a hunched over John Watson. He smiled when he recognized the DI and stepped aside to allow him into the flat.

Sherlock was seated in his normal spot, resting a cup of tea on his armrest. He too smiled when he heard John address the officer.

"Fancy a cup? Mrs. Hudson just brought it up." The shorter man gestured toward the fine bone china teapot.

Greg shook his head, his stomach clenching in apprehension. He didn't want to do this. "No, I'm here in an official capacity."

The smile slid from John's face and the DI could pinpoint the exact moment the army doctor _understood_ why he _was_ here. Greg's brown eyes flickered over to Sherlock. The consulting detective was staring straight ahead, the smile that had been there only moments before had vanished leaving only a blank stare. There was a slight tremor to his hand as he carefully placed the teacup on the side table before turning toward John and Lestrade.

His expression was now expertly masked as he forced his question, one that he really didn't want to know the answer to, past strained lips. "And what, pray tell, does this _official capacity_ mean?"

John's throat bobbed as he turned toward his friend, he had hoped it would take a bit longer for the Yard to come to a decision on him…apparently it hadn't. "He's here for me." He answered quietly.

A million emotions broke loose and warred with one another on Sherlock's face when full comprehension settled on him. It was almost painful to watch someone, as controlled as the younger Holmes, lose that control through no fault of his own. Denial and anger lit up his gray-blue eyes as he narrowed them in response. He looked almost feral as he spat a response, "Over my dead body."

TBC…

 **Author's Note** : _So yeah…that just happened. I figured that it wouldn't matter what the reasoning was, there is not way that Sherlock would be 'okay' with this turn of events. More to come…plus, I figured you'd all want more bromance and healing before another heart wrenching scene. : )_

 **Please take a few minutes and let know what you think of the shift in the plot?**


	13. The Shark at the Door

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 13**

 _The Shark at the Door_

The myriad of emotions writhing just under the blank mask of Sherlock's expression was fathomless. He'd fully expected for their trials to be over and he was not easily surprised, but at the moment, he was quite, unhappily, _surprised_. He and John had both been thrown into the raging fires of Hell and they had managed to come out the other end. Not unscathed mind you, but rather tempered, honed into something stronger than they never would have achieved otherwise.

But as his blue-gray eyes flickered between John and Lestrade, Sherlock finally understood. _He_ had faced his demons and, apparently, won, but his most loyal friend had not.

The consulting detective had wanted to believe that everything could now return to some semblance of normality in their lives. _As if there is anything 'normal' about our lives._ He thought bitterly. And yet, as he stared into the blurry silent image that he knew was John's face, he could feel the regret and the conflicted sorrow that pulsed just beneath the surface. He didn't need the crystal clear details to know that he was the only one in this room that felt that they had completed their gauntlet.

"Why?" he finally asked; simply allowing the immense hurt to penetrate his question as he waited for an answer.

John took a step toward him and Sherlock held his hand up to stop him, with a sigh the army doctor glanced back at Lestrade. "Can you give us a minute?"

The DI pulled in a ragged breath and merely nodded before slipping quietly from the room, pulling the door closed after him. Hearing the police man's silent retreat immediately put him on edge. Whatever it was that John wanted to say, it wasn't for anyone's ears but his.

Sherlock remained silent. He didn't want to give away all that he was feeling, mostly because he didn't truly understand the shifting _emotions_ himself. Wave after wave of unwanted feelings were crashing over him like a lighthouse being dashed apart by the ocean's fury. He carefully concealed those burdensome little _humanities_ , using the hard-learned lessons of childhood; he carefully hid them away under his practiced mask of blank indifference.

While he would not allow John Watson to waste away in some dingy prison cell, neither would he force the other man to remain with _him_ if he needed time away. And that realization nearly shattered his mask. It pained him more than any torture he'd ever endured. For a fraction of a moment his thoughts drifted to the years he'd been _dead_. Those were indeed the worst years he'd ever lived through. The loneliness had only been part of what had chipped away the person he'd been. He hadn't realized it at the time, but those were the years that trumped everything he'd learned prior. That was when he'd learned that his _choices_ had consequences.

During the last five months he'd been held and tortured within inches of death, but always, _always_ , there had been the thought of _coming home_. He lifted his veiled gaze to the outline of his best friend and felt the tangible release of something deep inside him. None of the raging internal battle showed on his face, he made sure of that.

John stood silent for several minutes before crossing the few feet that separated them, folding his compact frame into the chair across from Sherlock before speaking. The image remained blurry, but the unhappiness created a halo-effect around him.

"Sherlock—" he ventured cautiously.

"Don't." There was no hint of emotion in Sherlock's one word; he couldn't afford it, instead allowing his lanky body to sink further into the leather chair.

John sighed, "I owe you an explanation."

"You don't owe me anything, John." He responded coolly. "I understand." He knew what he was doing. Without meaning to he was slipping back into that impenetrable that had kept him separated from the rest of the world, before he'd met John that is.

"Do you?" John asked in strained voice. He could feel the frustration building inside him. "Because I'm not sure I do." His voice softened with indecision, he pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "I'm a simple man—"

Sherlock snorted. " _You_ are anything but _simple_." He retorted softly.

"Fine, I'm not complicated then." John concedes after a moment of reflection.

"All you did was change the wording, but it still means the same thing." The genius detective responded with a raised eyebrow. "And it is not accurate no matter what words you choose."

None of this appeared to be going the way John wanted it to, Sherlock didn't need eyes to figure that out. He fully understood that his friend wanted him to simply accept that this was his decision and that it was happening whether the youngest Holmes willed it or not. But he couldn't do that. _He wouldn't do that_.

Another long sigh filled the gaping silence between them. "I couldn't save you." He finally admitted, tension continued to build inside him, so he forced himself to continue. "After Mary, I was so wrapped up in the _rage_ and white-hot anger, that I couldn't see what her death was doing to you…" He pulled in a breath to steady his trembling voice. "And I'm sorry for that."

Sherlock's head snaps up at the apology, his brows furrowing as his mask slips momentarily. This was certainly not how he thought the conversation was going to go. He wanted nothing more than to deny what John is saying. To ease the pain he hears in the other man's voice, but he can't, because it's true and they both know it. He would be doing John a disservice to ignore the truths he was revealing and Sherlock would do anything to avoid hurting him again.

It was a long time before he could answer, eventually he did, "But you did, _save me_ that is."

"I wouldn't have." John states bluntly. "Not if _she_ hadn't told me to. Not if she hadn't reached out from beyond the grave and forced me to see what was happening around me."

The admission sent a cold tendril of fear down his spine and Sherlock cringed.

"As I said, I am not a complicated man. I am quick to anger and slow to forgive. I bear a grudge as easily as wearing a comfortable jumper. And I believe in right and wrong, Sherlock. I can't continue down this path with you if I don't do this." His entire demeanor shifted as though he was waiting for the biting response that currently sat unspoken on Sherlock's tongue. "I almost killed you…" John whispered brokenly.

Sherlock's color blanches as John drifted into silence, struggling to understand the pain that was chocking his from the inside out.

"I almost killed you." The doctor repeated in tortured voice. His blurry image moved as he sat forward, resting his good hand over his eyes as his guilt erupted inside him.

After what felt like forever, Sherlock finally responds hoarsely, "But you didn't."

 _How did I miss this?_ He hadn't realized just how much, that afternoon in the morgue, was weighing on John's conscience. _How could I have been so blind?_ He wondered.

Sherlock knew how men like John were _supposed_ to tick. Yet his friend, the one that had attached himself to the consulting detective and never turned away, had always been an enigma. He'd never conformed to the stereotypical _man_ he was supposed to be. He was brave, wise, rash, strategic and most all loyal to a fault. The detective had failed to notice the tiny bits of John that died every time Sherlock emotionally eviscerated him.

The realization hurt in ways torture couldn't touch. It stretched into the tiniest corners of his broken heart, reminding him that he and John were _not_ the same. They were friends because _John_ had wanted it. In the beginning had it been left to Sherlock he would have taken that pill and likely died… _Yes, I admit I wasn't sure which pill was which._

"Sherlock, do you get it? I could have. I wasn't going to stop." His voice broke and he coughed. "If those orderly hadn't pulled me off you…" He broke off again, the strain evident in the way he was speaking. "I would not have survived your death. Not again." A shuddered breath echoed through the otherwise silent flat. "Not once I realized that you had been trying to save me the whole time."

Sherlock's gaze flashed up and he suddenly wished with all his heart that he could see John's expression clearly. Because if his tone was anything to go by, the doctor wasn't far from losing it, "I didn't save you, Sherlock. Not until _she_ told me to. And the thing is…she shouldn't have had to tell me. I should have done it because it was the right thing to do. You were my friend and you were killing yourself with guilt and I knew it. I just didn't care."

The confession was tearing down Sherlock's wall faster than he could rebuild it. He knew what John's mental state had been following Mary's death, but he hadn't realized that _John_ knew it too. It was one thing to suspect that John had written him out of his and Rosie's lives, but quite another to hear it stated so bluntly. It was painfully difficult to hear.

John took a long pause before continuing, "You did not kill Mary. I knew that. No, I _know_ that, and I still blamed you for her death because I couldn't accept that there was so much about her that I didn't know. Things that she took to her grave." He laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I didn't understand how much until she was gone."

"And because of me you'll _never_ know." Sherlock said bitterly. His mask of indifference was slipping, he could feel his tortured, raw emotions gathering, preparing to explode into the conversation.

"No, not _because_ of you, Sherlock." John said forcefully before clearing his throat. "Because of _her_."

 _That_ silenced whatever the consulting detective had been about to say and he swallowed the thick wave of things he wants to say. Eventually he settles on, "Mary was a good woman." Sherlock was defending her without even thinking. He was tempted to go on, but sensed that he has said enough.

"I know that. I promise you, I _do_ know that." John paused gathering his thoughts.

Sherlock simply stared wide-eyed at the hunched out of focus figure across from him.

"But she was far from perfect and those imperfections finally caught up with her." He finished his thought and sank into the silence.

Sherlock can't watch this anymore. Even with his eyes still ruined, he can see that this is tearing John apart in ways that aren't remotely fair, or accurate. "She was perfect for you." He whispered, the words are nowhere near what he wants to say, but they'll have do. After all, this whole _emotional_ vomiting of his feelings wasn't exactly his strong suit. And it wasn't as if what he'd said weren't true; Mary had been the perfect counterpart to John. _So far as females are concerned._

In the beginning their connection had scared Sherlock; he'd been terrified of losing what he and John had built over the years. Losing the only friend that he had. It had taken him almost losing his life to Mary's bullet to fully understand that this wasn't about _him_ , it couldn't be. He had to do what was best for John and that meant having to accept that the other man needed both he and Mary. To that end, Sherlock's actions inside 221B the fateful night John had learned the truth had been driven by completely unselfish motivations.

He imagines the sad smile that must be pulling at John's lips as the silence stretches into minutes. Finally a low intake of shaky breath lets him know that his friend has again gained control of his emotions.

"She was." John admits freely through the pain.

Sherlock can still hear the resignation in the other man's voice and he knows that he hasn't convinced John not to turn himself over to Scotland Yard. So he uses the last bit of ammunition in his _John_ arsenal. "Mary wouldn't want this for you."

"You're right. She wouldn't."

He concedes easily and Sherlock thinks he's finally won the war. You'd think he knew better than to assume anything where John Watson was concerned.

"But this is one of the many ways Mary and I differed. She was able to shove away her guilt. Bury it so that it couldn't torment her. It is a skill you and she shared. Unfortunately, it is not one that I have or could ever learn. For me, there must be a balance between right and wrong, consequences for my actions, good or bad. This is the only way I know how to atone for what I did to you, Sherlock and I am truly sorry that it hurts you."

Sherlock started to protest, but he caught movement that must be John's hand coming up to silence him. Under normal circumstances, he would ignore the obnoxious gesture, but there were not _normal circumstances_.

"Just listen to me for a moment, Sherlock. When you were injecting that _poison_ into your veins, what were you thinking?"

The ex-junkie can't help but flinch at the choice of words. John knows him well enough to guess that he will never answer a question as _loaded_ as that one. He quickly continues, "You were searching for a way to help me, yes. Of that I have no doubt, but weren't you also looking for some kind of remedy to the pain of Mary's death? Some way to _atone_ for your part in it?"

Silence is the only answer to a question that feels anything but rhetorical. What can he possibly say to that? But the guilt once again floods to the surface and he drops his gaze toward the unremarkable floor.

John inhales deeply, leaning forward to regain the other man's attention, "This is _my_ atonement, Sherlock. I can't hide at the bottom of a syringe. And at this moment, I don't the option jump in front of a bullet meant for you, but I can do this. Take the legal and lawful punishment for a crime that I _did_ commit…against you." His tone softens, becoming slightly breathy as he continues, "Against our friendship."

For that, Sherlock has no response. John wasn't the only one that had committed _crimes_ against their friendship over the years. But it appeared that he was the only on that might serve prison time as a result. But there was a bigger question hanging in the atmosphere of tension inside 221B. "What about Rosie?" The question had been buzzing around inside his head since Mary died.

A soft, emotion-laded chuckle slips out. "She has you. Rosie will be okay until I can come home."

John said it so easily. Like he trusted Sherlock not to screw up his only daughter while he was behind bars. The image that thought conjured sent a jolt of fear through him; he blinked several times, trying to understand the _faith_ that his friend seemed to have in his non-existent parenting skills. "I'm not good with children." He muttered weakly.

"Oh I don't know, you handled our ring bearer just fine."

"I promised to show him crime scene photos of beheadings."

John snorted as he attempted not to laugh at that. "I figured you'd promised him something, but he wouldn't give up what it was."

His glassy blue-grey eyes lifted, "You don't have to do this, John. Please…let me find another way."

He watched the doctor pull in a deep breath before slipping off the chair and closing the distance between them. It wasn't anything more than John choosing to come down to Sherlock's level. Two pairs of blue eyes now stared at one another, earnest emotions tumbling in their depths. It wasn't until John was barely five inches from his face that the consulting detective realized the other man was slightly less blurry.

"If I thought there was another way, I'd take it. Really, I would. The balance in my life leans so heavily to one side, that I can't see anything else. I _need_ you to let me do this, Sherlock. Please."

The burning sensation behind his eyes finally spilled over as the tears slid down his bruised angular face. Everything he'd been feeling over the last several weeks finally broke the dam of iron-strong _will_ that he'd been hiding behind.

John said nothing, but he did slowly climb to his feet and pull Sherlock up into a hug. There was no wailing or trembling shoulders, just silent tears and the comfort only a true friend could offer. He had no idea how long they stood there, and truthfully, it didn't matter. Finally, he slowly pulled away from the one armed hug of the shorter blonde.

"Can you give me a couple days?" It might be the most vulnerable Sherlock had ever been with another person. _That isn't Mycroft._ His mind supplies evenly. _Shut-up_. And then, taking a page out of John's book, he continued with, " _Please…_ "

There was no mistaking the hitched breath that caught in his friend's throat at the naked-pain he no longer wanted to hide.

"Sherlock…" John responded quietly. But whatever he'd been about to say died on his lips the dark-haired detective stepped away from him. "Okay." He reluctantly agreed. "If we can stall Scotland Yard." He amended with a sigh.

"I'll talk to Greg."

He felt more than saw John's gaze jump to his, "You _do_ know his name."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the ridiculousness of that sentence. "Of course I know his name." He settled back into his chair, attempting to regain some of his composure and maybe a smidgeon of his _dignity_. "It irritates him that I call him everything but Greg."

As they slipped back in the normality of their banter, the door opened and Mrs. Hudson swept into the room with sandwiches and offered to make a fresh pot of tea.

221B 221B

John stared into the beveled mirror in the steamy bathroom, carefully assessing the man he'd become since the death of his wife. This was a man that he didn't recognize, hair longer than normal, eyes distant and stormy with dark smudges that almost looked like bruising beneath them and thinner than he could ever remember being. Yet it wasn't the physical differences that kept him awake at night, it was the bloody nightmares. He hadn't been there when Mary had taken the bullet meant for Sherlock. Another pang of deep painful guilt clenched his heart when he realized that he hadn't been there when Sherlock had been shot the last time either.

As a matter of fact, he'd only been present once when someone had tried to kill off his best friend. And yet, there were so many other instances when someone had sought to end the life of the world's only consulting detective. Had he been there, at the aquarium, he would not have hesitated to take the bullet. It wasn't a question that he needed answered, because he'd already taken bullets for people he cared about in the past. _Don't think about that._ He cautioned his wandering thoughts before lifted his gaze back to the slightly less steamy mirror.

The surgery had left him with another long scar spanning the joint of right shoulder, it was raised and puffy at the moment, but it would eventually turn a pale pink color before slowly fading to almost white. His gaze drifted over the many other scars that littered his body. John's life was a series of events that always seem to leave the tangible reminders etched in his flesh.

There was a two-inch line running along the left side of his chest, just beneath the jutting collarbone. His father had been drunk and John had been there. The broken glass of the beer bottle had easily sliced through his thin t-shirt when his father had thrown it at him. If John hadn't been so surprised, he would have ducked. He'd pretty good at gauging the severity of father's drunken rages over the years. But this had been different, he'd been away and his reflexes had lost some of the speed they'd had when this was a regular occurrence.

He blinked several times as painful memories of his past winked back at him through the scars he'd been staring at, before slowly reaching to down to grab his sling. It had been years since he'd reflected on the bastard that his father had been. John hadn't been able to do much about it when he'd been younger, but he'd learned the lesson that he must accept the devastating hits and keep pushing forward. Part of him recognized that that was why he was able to put up with Sherlock's personality, at least in the beginning.

Over the years, he had come to respect and love the other man as the brother that he'd never had. They were so different and yet there was a similarity to the way they had each chosen to live their lives. John had hidden away in the army, using his medical skills to save the lives of men that wouldn't survive otherwise, me worthier than himself. Sherlock had chosen to apply his genius-level intellect to solving the _unsolvable_ mysteries of the world.

The doctor was under no illusions that his friend had not done this for the people he was saving, at least not at first. The self-proclaimed sociopath had been bored. And for that reason he started looking for ways to occupy the lightning fast brain he'd been born with. The first time that John had realized that there was more to the tall, pale, dark-haired young detective, had been inside the pool area when Moriarty finally revealed himself.

There had been glimpses of the man Sherlock could become, but nothing concrete to crack open the carefully constructed world the youngest Holmes lived in. Truly, it hadn't been until John had stepped out wearing the vest lined in explosives that he recognized something in the surprised man's pale eyes, _fear_. He had been afraid of losing _John_. Whether that been to a crafted deception on the doctor's part or to the explosive finality of the bomb, John had never really worked out.

Shaking his head at the fractured way his brain was working recently, he worked his sleep pants over his hips before looking at the t-shirt with something akin to frustration. Working around a shoulder injury was far more difficult than people seemed to think. Just the act of putting on a simple shirt was agony. Biting his lower lip in anticipation he grabbed the grey material and slipped it over his damp hair. Ignoring the way his silver-blonde locks now stood up in disarray he gingerly pulled the sling over his head allow the straps to settle into place.

A light knock on the door focused his wandering thoughts, "John?"

Sherlock sounded tired. Like he'd been beaten down by everything that had happened to them recently. When he considered the magnitude of the shift in their lives, he supposed that was an apt assessment of his friend. "Yeah?" he called through the closed the door.

"I'm ordering take-away. Chinese?"

He pulled the door open to find the tall man leaning heavily on his cane, his eyes focused a bit to the left of where John was standing. Seeing the evidence that Sherlock's sight hadn't returned completely chucked the older man into a spiral of self-inflicted guilt. "Sure. Yeah, that sounds good."

He watched the younger Holmes's eyes narrow when he recognized John's emotionally strained tone, but decided not to remark on it. Without another word he turned back toward the front room of the flat. The newly showered doctor followed him, "You spoke with Greg?"

Sherlock's back stiffened, "I did."

When he didn't elaborate, "And?" John huffed out, his agitation clear in the one word question.

"You have a week." The other man said without turning away from the mantle he was leaning against. He tended to set his phone there when he wandered around the flat, that way it was easily accessible, yet out of the way to prying eyes…like John's.

"Would you mind be a bit less cryptic?"

This seemed to pull the reluctant consulting detective around to face him. "You have a week, John." He repeated coolly.

There was something he wasn't being told and he didn't like that. Not where Sherlock was concerned. The man's secret's probably had secrets and they were likely stored inside an impenetrable vault. "Sherlock, is there something I should know?" His insides coiled warily at the shadow that flickered through the pale eyes of his best friend. John didn't like the idea that they had returned to the status quo so quickly. Part of him had believed that maybe he and Sherlock would be honest with each other after everything the lies had taken from them. But as he evaluated the younger Holmes, he knew that that was not to be the case.

An old familiar anger burst to life before settling into a painful ache in his chest. _I thought we were past all this. Guess not._

Sherlock didn't answer him; instead he limped into the kitchen to grab the take-away menu off the counter. "The usual?" he called from the other room.

John clenched his teeth to keep from retaliating with the angry words that rose unbidden to his lips. He took a deep breath, allowing the pain it caused in his shoulder to ground him. "That's fine."

He listened to the deep rumble of the other man's baritone as he ordered the food and suddenly he realized how much he was going to miss this. The complex nature of their friendship and the ease with which they lived in each other's space was unprecedented for the doctor. Even in the army he'd been a loner.

Grabbing the remote and settling into his chair, he flicked on the telly and pressed the volume button. Sherlock liked the mute the thing and then try and lip-read what was being said. For the first little while he'd lived there, John had been certain the speakers were broken. But no, it had all been to benefit the strange man he had chosen shared his life with. So that from a distance Sherlock could silently _read_ what others were saying aloud.

John flipped through the channels aimlessly before finally settling on the BBC news channel. He shook his head at the ridiculous stories that seemed to comprise everything coming out of the America lately. The sound of his flat-mate bustling around in their small kitchen was a comforting mix of the _normal_ and the _strange_. Generally, the preoccupied consulting detective was only found inside that room if he was immersed in a case, thereby studying something through his microscope with far too much attention.

It was only thanks to the extremely unusual chance of fate that Sherlock wasn't sitting next to John when the news report flashed across the screen.

- _Culverton Smith, the serial-killing billionaire has been exonerated of all charges and released from Scotland Yard. His representatives could not be reached for a statement at the time of this broadcast. There is some speculation if his dealings with the illusive Sherlock Homes have something to do with his unlikely release. –_

John swallowed the lump of panic that exploded through him. The odd rhythmic clock of Sherlock's cane forced him to quickly change the channel. He didn't want him to know yet. _Not yet. God, can we have one bloody night without the world shattering around us?_

There was a stilted halt to the steps before the end of the cane lifted to point at the television. "Miss Marple's murder Mysteries?" The soft music of the beginning of the show must have given it away. There was a hint of approval in his soft tone and the doctor found his gaze lifting to see a slight quark of a smile making itself known the edges of his friend's lips. "I don't think I've seen this one."

Without missing a beat, Sherlock ambled over to his chair and carefully lowered his still healing body into the soft leather. The fact that he completely missed John's worried expression could be placed squarely on the fact that he couldn't yet _see_ it clearly.

John sat without really listening to the program, his mind completely occupied with more pressing matters. In one moment everything that he'd planned came crashing down around him. He only had one week to find the son of bitch that had tried to murder Sherlock. In his own haste to dispel the grief and guilt he had been drowning in, he had most likely lift his best friend to the _tender mercies_ of a serial killer.

Something hardened inside him at that thought. _Not bloody likely._ He silently promised the dark head sitting across from him. The buzzer from the door drilled through his contemplation. There was a tightening of Sherlock's muscles as he prepared to navigate the treacherous stairs in pursuit of the take-away he'd ordered. "I'll get it." John said, before quickly pulling himself upright. "Wouldn't want to miss the end of the show."

A dark eyebrow lifted in answer to that. "Are you suggesting that I don't know ' _who done it'_?"

The strangely American phrase caused John to stare at his posh flat-mate in surprise. "What?"

Sherlock shook his head and rolled his eyes. "It was the sister. She was in love with the delivery driver, who needed the money to gain access to his father's bank records in order to determine who actually the cottage."

The doctor found himself standing open-mouthed in their flat, staring at a man that could barely seen the television, let alone the intricate clues of the case. "How the hell…where…what?!"

"You're making even less sense than normal, John." The bite to Sherlock's retort held no heat, nothing like it would have in the past. "Take-away?"

The reminder had John turning away the amazing deductions he'd just witnessed. It never got old. Not in all the years that he'd watch the man sitting in 221B easily rip away the extraneous details of a problem, leaving only the relevant parts for analysis.

When stepped on the board near the base of the staircase, it creaked loudly. Mrs. Hudson popped her head out of her flat, curlers wrapped tightly against her head. "You got it then, John?"

It was a silly question, really. Of course he had it, otherwise he wouldn't be standing at the door digging money out of his wallet. "Yes thank you, Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled warmly and then slipped back inside her flat, gently closing the door. Shaking head at the watch-dog capabilities of their landlady, he pulled open the door and found himself staring in the beady blue eyes of Culverton Smith. The man was even wearing the uniform from the Chinese restaurant and a sick grin that sent a chill of icy fear through the doctor.

With twisted smile, revealing the yellowed crooked teeth that made the shocked think of a shark, the dangerous little man said, "John."

TBC.

 **Author's Note** _: Since when do people with massive amounts of fame and wealth pay for their crimes? It was a bit too easy in the episode, so here's my take on what happens when true power and wealth are confronted with honest men trying to enforce the law. As I promised, one last very BIG complication is needed to get John's head on straight. He's already been charged for his 'sins', as he calls them, he just doesn't realize that the price may be more than he's willing to pay._

 **Shameless request for reviews?**


	14. A Life Worth Living

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This was supposed to only be a couple of chapters and yet the best laid plans and all. This story deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 14**

 _A Life Worth Living_

When the end credits started to roll, Sherlock blinked in surprise. He hadn't realized he was as tired as he'd apparently been and yet the obvious passage of time could not be ignored as the telly program had clearly run its' course. The soft ticking of the large wall-clock and the faint instrumental music floating from the speakers were the only sounds inside the flat. And yet that should not be so… _where are you?_ He wondered silently. The absence of his friend was a realization that had his muscles clenching in preparation for possible action. The pain was nothing. He could _ignore_ the pain.

"John?" he called out softly, forcing his aching legs to take his weight as he rose up and reached for his cane when they wobbled slightly. Frowning in irritation with his _transport_ , he willed his stubborn body to obey and made his way into the kitchen, as he'd expected, it was empty.

Carefully, the detective maneuvered back toward the flat's shared bathroom. The hallway was dark with no light peaking out beneath the half-closed door. Sherlock lifted his blurry gaze to his own door, as always, it was tightly closed, a barrier between him and the rest of the world.

With a sigh he tried to ignore the gathering knot in his stomach and reached, twisting the knob on his door before pushing the heavy wood inward.

There was nothing, again. No John Watson. Pressing his lips together as the agitation built, Sherlock turned and ambled toward the main door of the flat. The next coherent thought to break up his dazed search was the fact that it was going to _hurt like hell_ to climb the steep, not to mention narrow, stairs to John's third floor room.

 _Where the hell are you, John?_ The dark haired man wondered with a worried shake of his head. The curly locks bounced down over one eye, he shook his head to clear the offending obstruction. His vision was bad enough without adding in his bloody hair! Taking a deep breath, which sent a sharp slice of pain along his side causing him to wince, Sherlock grabbed the railing stepping up on to the first riser.

By the time he'd climbed all thirteen steps he was sweating profusely, his entire body ached with the sheer effort and the mounting pain. Sherlock was making all sorts of promises to himself as leaned against the solid wall wiping his long thin fingers over his eyes before wiping them on his trousers. It was a disgusting habit that he would most certainly judge and scorn others for, but at the moment he didn't care one bleeding wit about _propriety_.

The simple act of remaining upright was taking all of his concentration.

He pushed away from the wall and turned toward the open door of John's small room, Sherlock was struck by the complexity of that one act. While he was very careful to ensure that his bedroom remained a sanctuary, isolated and closed to the world at large, John did not. He invited people into his life. John was _open_ to the possibilities that the world presented, while Sherlock was not; probably never would be. It was a strange realization that while they shared certain traits, this was one where they were glaringly different. Sherlock had always operated under the belief that _people_ were unnecessary to his continued existence, _most people anyway_.

His best friend still harbored within him the desperate hope that he would not spend his life alone.

The injured man shifted uncomfortably with the direction of his thoughts, his pale eyes staring straight ahead. The light appeared to blur into a mass of rainbows and darkness at the entrance to John's room.

With some effort, Sherlock shoved the thoughts aside and hobbled inside the threshold of his best friend's room. It was small and from what Sherlock could make out, very neat. In the corner he was quite certain that the large blurry mass must be the doctor's bed. He limped toward it and took a stilted breath before sinking down onto the tightly stretched blanket. He wondered just how much of the doctor really _lived_ in this room. The sheer order of John's bedroom was staggering. _No, John hasn't lived in this place for a long time,_ he decided with a pang of regret. In all the time they'd lived together, he couldn't remember having ever made the effort to see the small space that John had claimed for his own.

 _What kind of friend does that make me?_ He thought accusingly. With a shake of his dark head, the consulting detective heaved himself back onto his feet and turned to make his way toward the door and back to the stairs. He wondered if he couldn't guilt Mycroft into having a 'lift' installed? It might be possible if the youngest Holmes really played up the pain in caused him to ascend and descend the current staircase.

Several painful minutes later he made his way to the front door of 221B. Without thinking he reached out, his long fingers closing easily around the thick material of his Belstaff. He plucked it off the hook near the entrance, and slowly pulled it around his thin frame; the familiar weight of the heavy coat fell into place before he inhaled deeply and headed out of 221B.

The pale glow light from the streetlamp cast a lonely yellow haze across the damp pavement. An increasing pitter-patter of rain told Sherlock that the day had resulted in a light rain. _Dammit…_ that was going to muddle any clues left behind. Another thought occurred to him and a pang uncertainty sliced through him. _I can't even see them_ … He quickly shoved aside the self-indulgent pity and considered what he did know. The change in weather informed him of the fact that he'd slept far longer than he'd intended, which meant that he had no idea how long John had been gone. _Or where he went…_

Sherlock stepped down to the sidewalk as he stared out into the hazy darkness, the uncomfortable feeling in his gut twisted into some decidedly more unpleasant. It was entirely possible that John had been taken as a result of Sherlock's own actions.

 _Stop feeling sorry for yourself. Get back on the horse and figure out where the bloody hell John has gotten off to._ The voice sounded suspiciously like Mycroft's.

It wasn't until his foot squelched and slipped slightly that he allowed his gaze to drift down. While he couldn't clearly make out what it was, he knew that this was a clue.

Ignoring the little voice inside his head, the one that was carrying on about how much his next actions were going to hurt, he sank to his knees. Biting back the burning, lancing pain, he pulled his lower lip between his teeth and reached down to _feel_ whatever it was he'd just stepped in. Part of him was disgustingly aware that it could be a parting _gift_ from the small yappy dog that lived in the flat across the street. And yet without the use of his eyes, he had no other choice.

He shivered as the moisture soaked through his dark trousers and the cold settled into the marrow of his bones. With quivering muscles he leaned forward pressing his right hand into the gooey _stuff_ on the street. He swallowed thickly when he recognized the feel of _noodles_. Which meant that this was part of the take-away they'd ordered. The coiling snake of concern shifted into full-blown alarm causing him to lurch awkwardly to his feet. Another bolt of pain slammed through him, but Sherlock locked it away in order to stay focused.

Something had happened out here. And it had happened to _John_. The familiar ache of fear, loss and abandonment, compounded by the growing concern for his friend, flooded through him as he glanced back toward the flat. He was already reaching down for his phone before he realized that it was sitting, quite innocently, on the arm of his leather chair, inside at the top of those infernal stairs.

"Damn you Holmes!" He hissed in irritation. "Keep your bloody mobile in your pocket," he groused as he limped up the two front steps and slipping through the front door. It was a lesson he'd tried to drive into John over the years and yet here he was violating his own _rules_.

With a growl of frustration he made the arduous journey toward his goal battling the _evil_ steps the entire way. When he finally reached the landing, Sherlock wasn't sure if it was sweat dripping into his eyes or rainwater. He had a sinking feeling it was the former. His body was guilty of complete treason, so far as he was concerned, and he wondered if he would ever get back to where he'd been two years ago… _possibly not._ Ignoring the errant thought he pushed past the door.

With little difficulty, he navigated the obstacles in the room, mostly from memory, before he reached for the small blurry object while simultaneously pressing the 'on' button. The screen flared to life and Sherlock was forced to place a call he really didn't want to make.

"Sherlock?" Mycroft's voice came across as poised and wide-awake, despite the fact that it had to be the wee hours of the morning. Sherlock had always hated that his brother could go from asleep to alert in the space of a heartbeat. However, this one time he was grateful for this strange talent. "To what do I—"

"I can't find John." He interrupted the ridiculous comment the elder Holmes had been about to make.

There was an audible sigh, "Sherlock, if you can't keep track of your friends, what do you—"

Anger flared and the younger man clenched his teeth against the response that threatened to erupt at the flippant way Mycroft had answered. "Was there anything in my tone that suggested I was joking, Mycroft?"

He heard the rustle of what could only be his brother's bed before Mycroft deigned to answer him. "My apologies, brother mine. What's happened?" His tone was even with an underscoring of tension.

Sherlock had learned over the years that this meant that his older brother was now fully _engaged_ in the conversation. He had gained, arguably, the most powerful man in the United Kingdom's undivided attention. He scoffed inside his own head and then turned toward the door, his pale gaze landing on the emptiness there.

"I'm not entirely certain." That was a difficult admission. For all the things that Sherlock was, unsure was not generally one of them. "I fell asleep. Next thing I know, it's very late—"

"I am well aware of just how late the hour is little brother."

Grinding his teeth together at the interruption, Sherlock continued. "I was unable to ascertain where John had gotten off to after I woke up."

"Is that unusual?"

Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow in response. "No. However, we had ordered take-away and I found it smashed in the street outside the flat."

Silence on the other end of the phone went on long enough that the consulting detective pulled the mobile from his ear to see if he'd lost the connection. He hadn't. "Mycroft?"

"My apologies, Sherlock. I was sending a message."

Irritation roared to the surface and the younger Holmes was unable to control his retort. "And was that message more important that John's disappearance?"

After a long-suffering sigh Mycroft answered, "I was messaging _about_ John."

The anger drained away and Sherlock found himself sinking into the buttery soft leather of his chair. "Mycroft, I can't go through this again…" he whispered brokenly.

This time when the silence dragged on, Sherlock knew it was because his older brother was trying to determine how to handle this version of his younger brother. Not since he'd been five years old had Sherlock delved into the emotions he'd tried to bury and asked for his brother's help. And now? Mycroft Holmes felt unprepared for the consequences if he failed to respond correctly to his brother's weakness.

Sherlock knew all of this and it too weighed heavily on him as he swallowed the twisting fears inside him. His gaze drifted around the small living space of their flat and pressed his lips together at the familiar blur that surrounded _everything_ he looked at.

"I'll call Lestrade."

"No, I can do that." Swallowing thickly, he continued. "Can you please let Molly know what's going on? She has been entrusted with Rosie's care and she should be kept informed as well."

"Yes." Mycroft answered quickly. There was a moment of silence before he continued. "Sherlock?"

Even with his brother's admittedly superior skills at hiding his feelings, the younger Holmes could hear the concern bleeding through. "I'm fine, Mycroft." He answered flatly.

"You're sure?"

"If you're worried I'll be driven back inside a needle because of this…" the sharp intake of breath told him he was exactly right. His brother was scared Sherlock wasn't far enough along his road to recovery to withstand the temptation. If it had been anything or _anyone_ but John, he might have been. But that wasn't the case; this was all because of John Watson, so he could not fail…not again…not this time. Reluctantly he admitted that he'd had this internal conversation before. "…I won't." he finished the rest of his thoughts out loud. The slight tremble beneath his words was not lost on his brother.

"Fine." Mycroft acknowledged. "What do you know?"

Sherlock slid into the recent memories of earlier that evening and was surprised when they were crystal clear. It would appear that his mind had filled in the blurry images with a clarity that he hadn't seen for a while. He found that the pain that was a constant companion of late, plaguing his every waking moment was absent inside his mind and for that he was intensely grateful.

Unfortunately, Sherlock knew the lack of pain would only apply within the walls of his mind. Once he exited this made-up little world he'd be in no better condition than before.

Not for the first time, in his life, Sherlock held a fervent wish that he could remain locked inside the many rooms of his mind-palace. With some difficulty, he banished his self-serving thoughts forcing himself to focus on the scene.

He paced around the sleeping version of himself, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest, a sure sign that he was actually sleeping. Sherlock's lips twitched in irritation.

 _Hmmm…so my mind was still assimilating my surroundings despite my inattention?_ That was an interesting bit of information that he'd never realized before. Sherlock filed it away to study at a later date. Right now his concern was for John.

 _And all the while John was being kidnapped and taken to God knows where and I am sitting there blood SLEEPING!_ He forced his eyes to shift around the flat until they landed on their target. John.

The short blonde was seated in the floral covered chair across from the sleeping man. The doctor was staring at his mobile device, a funny look passing over his normally stoic face. Sherlock couldn't quell the curiosity that made him lean over the other man's shoulder in the hopes that he could see what John was looking at.

Deep down Sherlock knew that there was no way he could possible know what had been on the other man's screen. But as his eyes drifted down, he knew what he would see.

Smiling up from the bright sunny remains of what had been their wedding day was a picture of the 'Watsons'. Unwanted painful emotions wound tightly around Sherlock's heart. Ripping it open and laying it bare at the genuine warmth he read in both sets of blue eyes, they grinned out at the world with genuine happiness.

A very small part of his mind understood that guilt was rising up, trying to steal the forgiveness he'd already received from both Watsons. Somehow, even knowing that he _was_ forgiven didn't make this hurt any less.

He swallowed and then forced his thoughts in another direction, he needed to do something different…using 'intuition' wasn't completely foreign to the consulting detective, though he did find it a bit distasteful. It wasn't the way he preferred to solve a case and there had been times when he'd been forced to make a _deductive leap of…what was it? Faith? No, surely not_. So instead of getting drawn inside his errant thoughts, the ones concerning his friend's devastating losses, Sherlock decided to focus on what he knew.

John had been inside with him when he'd fallen asleep. But something had drawn him away from the living room of their flat.

 _Ah yes, the Chinese take-away had arrived._ He remembered starting to haul his aching body up from the chair when John had quickly risen and headed toward the stairs. So Sherlock had stayed where he was, his eyes drifting down and his mind giving in to the constant pressing need for sleep. Turning on his heel, he made to follow John only to be stopped at the doorframe. It was like being tethered by an invisible thread to his exhausted and traitorous body. He couldn't leave the blooding room but he could still hear John's voice floating up from the landing below the flat.

The gentle hum of Mrs. Hudson's soft question drifted up and a small smile broke across his normally stoic face. John's equally predictable answer caused his smile to spread wider.

The next words Sherlock heard wiped all remnants of humor from the situation.

"John." There was no mistaking that voice and the tendril of cold fear burst into full-blown panic as he surged up out of his own mind. Pain returned with a vengeance and the sound of his brother's irritated breathing balanced his mind enough to speak, "Culverton Smith…" he whispered into the mobile. "Mycroft, it was Smith. Oh dear God. He has John."

"I'm on my way."

The line went dead and with a strangled breath Sherlock's knees buckled and he sank down onto a chair. A far off corner of his mind, one that was still aware of everything happening around him, realized that he was sitting in John's chair causing another wave of guilt.

TBC.

 **Author's Note** _: Life has reared its head and caused me to be absent for far longer than I had intended. Apologies for that, I am posting this chapter and splitting it from John's current situation as I am still working those pages. I hope you all have a lovely holiday and I plan to write far more over the holidays._

 **Shameless request for reviews?**


	15. Never Alone

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is not SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint you can read it anyway you like.

**A tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.**

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This will only be a couple of chapters, but it deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 **Chapter 15**

 _Never Alone_

Mycroft Holmes stared out the tinted window of the midnight blue Jaguar; his thoughts were a million miles away from the blinking white lights of London's city center. It wasn't' often that he got caught up in this type of self-reflection and he was never pleasant to deal with after. But then again his brother had always had the ability to bring out the most _human_ responses in his big brother. Mycroft's life had been a series of missteps when it came to the youngest Holmes family member and he was determined not make this another one of those, _regretful steps_.

However misguided or ridiculous Sherlock could be, he was still _Mycroft's_ _ridiculous and misguided_ little brother. Which meant that there was nothing the man could do that would cause Mycroft to turn away from him. Reaching up, he scrubbed his hand down his face; it was an unconscious effort to settle the raging emotions within. He'd never particularly comfortable with emotions. _One thing you and I can agree on Sherlock._ Emotions were a nuisance. They caused good thinking to become muddled and useless.

Mycroft sighed; he had been so close this time…so close to losing Sherlock to the increasing darkness that writhed beneath the calm façade of his young brother's genius. An involuntary shudder rippled through Mycroft and he swallowed the almost choking levels of fear he so rarely allowed to surface.

Lestrade was one of the few people in the world that knew just how much the icy heart of the man that ran London's most classified operations belonged to his only known sibling. It wouldn't have done either him or Sherlock any good if that were common knowledge. Even at the ministry it was generally assumed that Mycroft simply 'put up' with the antics of the _world's only consulting detective_ because they _were_ family. That there was no love lost between the brothers; if one believed that lie then they were even dafter than Mycroft had generally believed possible.

Just thinking of the _title_ that Sherlock had given himself made the elder Holmes's lips twitch with a strange semblance of a smile. Fitting into the role that society had chosen for him had never been something Mycroft's little brother had aspired to. No, Sherlock needed to make his own way in the world, create a road that was only paved for him. Sherlock had had to determine how to apply his unique skillsets without the influence of either his family or predetermined expectations. Upon reflection, Mycroft had to admit that his brother had done exactly that.

It hadn't been until John Watson had entered Sherlock's world that he truly started _living_. Prior to that _intervention_ Mycroft had watched with a sinking heart as Sherlock drifted in and out of the crashing waves of his own brilliance. He'd had no one to focus his scattered thoughts, no one to guide the prism of his genius into productive and more _human_ applications.

The appearance of Moriarty had terrified Mycroft. He'd known that he might well lose his brother to the juvenile _detective_ games Sherlock so casually played. But the youngest Holmes had never actually been on a _level_ playing field. Not at any point in his life had Sherlock met someone that he couldn't outthink, outlast, or _outplay_. Everything had changed with the introduction of James Moriarty…and it had shifted again when John Watson had stepped onto the playing field.

Truly, if it hadn't been for the chance meeting between Sherlock and John, the world may have lost the only consulting detective to his own vices. And Mycroft would have lost his greatest treasure. For all that he and Sherlock fought like bickering school children, he loved his complicated, snarky, frustrating, childish addict of a baby brother more than anything else in the entire bloody world.

A lump caught in his throat at the memory of just how deadly that night had nearly been. It had only been the late addition of a man that Moriarty didn't understand and couldn't yet predict that had saved Sherlock. For without John Watson, there could be no Sherlock Holmes.

Because of that there was nothing that Mycroft would not do to save the doctor. If not for himself, he would do this for Sherlock.

221B 221B

There were times when physical sensation really wasn't a good thing. _Not a bloody good thing at all._ The thought flitted through John's head causing a wave of something that could only be classified as _frustration_.

This happened to be one of those times.

There was a painful thrumming bouncing around inside his head stealing his conscious thought. But it did, eventually, haul John Watson back from his haven of painless _oblivion_ thrusting him into the mind-blowing agony of his _reality_.

The soldier inside him, the stubborn one that had been trained all the way down to his boots, demanded nothing but staunch discipline. So, he didn't move, didn't even twitch a muscle, instead he calmly and quickly assessed his current situation…disappointment settling like rock in gut when he realized it was _pretty bloody rotten_.

Even his lack of movement didn't to stop the waves of pain; biting back a curse as heart-stopping white-hot fire continued to bounce around inside him causing moments of blinding _sensation he waited._ He waited for understanding to follow his budding awareness; understanding of his current condition. John continued his assessment and quicklyrealized his hands had been secured behind him. _That explains why my bloody shoulder feels like it's been ripped from the socket._ He thought in impotent anger.

The sling, which had previously held his arm immobile, had been removed and now everything seemed to burn with an internal flame that lit up his shoulder joint in building waves of white-hot agony. It was nearly intolerable, he was breathing in short ineffective pants causing a lightheadedness that was wholly unacceptable if he was to get out of his current situation.

But one thing that the army had taught John Watson was; never give up a tactical advantage. And right now, that bastards had no idea he was conscious, so he bit back his body's reactions, remained silent and stayed frozen in place, despite the pain.

Instead of giving in to his situation, he attempted to use it to focus. _What would Sherlock do?_ Ignoring the sarcastic little remark that settled easily on his lips at the thought of his friend, he tried to put himself inside the mind of the most confusing man he'd ever known.

Sherlock was a lot of things, but generally speaking, he wasn't often surprised; he'd survived far too many situations for it to be merely coincidence. So the task fell to John to stay rational and learn as much about his situation as he could. _And escape if I can._

Wherever Culverton had taken him, there weren't any windows and it was eerily silent. There was an earthy scent that told him the floors were most likely dirt. Which didn't bode well for him. Between the moisture and the time of year, John's body had started to shiver, which was sending waves of pain racing along the raw nerve-endings.

Blinking rapidly against the pain John forced his gaze to scan in order to learn what he could. He spotted a small light bulb hanging from a suspended wire above him, the small flickering bulb was all that stood between John and complete darkness. Unwanted gratitude flowed through him when realized he wouldn't be plunged into the inky darkness. He didn't exactly appreciate the dark, never had.

The ensuing silence quickly began to grate on his nerves as his blood rushed in his ears and his heart thudded far too quickly within his chest. John had never done well in silence; it would permeate through his mind allowing him to drift down the more dangerous roads of his past, leading to memories that were better left alone.

The burning pain in his shoulder wouldn't allow him to find any real relief and he nearly groaned when the single light flickered ominously. With a slight shake of his head, John rolled to his left gathering the strength he would need to at least get to his knees. A slight buzzing sound caught his attention briefly, blues eyes flicked up to the glowing bulb.

" _If there is a light, then it stands to reason that there is a fixture above it. That would offer a chance to breach the ceiling."_

Sherlock's cool assessment of his current situation made John's insides ache and his mind spin. The sheer sense that his, somewhat overly observant friend was making inside John's mind was staggering. He needed to push down the pain and force his drifting thoughts to coalesce on a plan of escape.

He carefully rolled up onto his knees; the effort nearly blinded him as the pain intensified with every movement. _Shite, bloody fucking hell!_ He swore inside the confines of his mind, but in reality the only noise that escaped was a strangled groan. Pulling his lower lip between his teeth, John carefully rolled back onto his toes and forced his legs to obey him. Several agonizing moments later he finally made it to his feet. Though he immediately stumbled and slammed into the wall with his bad shoulder. Everything lit up in a burst of blinding white stars as he became aware of nothing but the pain.

The next sensation he recognized was of something running down his chin, the odd sensation troubled him it tickled slightly. Without thinking John rolled his head to the side and managed to wipe the offending liquid from his face. He couldn't see the bright red streak left by the blood; he was far too busy as every cell in his body was focused on simply keeping him upright. John's knees trembled and his legs threatened to give way. He _really_ wanted to lie down and allow his circumstances to consume him and yet, he knew he couldn't do that.

On the plus side, his arm was now firmly back in the socket. Not that that was much of a consolation, but it was a small victory. He remained firmly on his knees, his body slumping forward as his breathing hitched when a surge of white-hot pain lit up every nerve in his body. John allowed his thoughts to wander back to the man that was responsible for his and Sherlock's current physical conditions. The sheer power of the anger that bubbled up surprised him somewhat. He hadn't thought that he had the energy to support that type of emotional response.

 _Okay, so that's not exactly true. I was the one that beat the bloody piss out of my best friend. Smith may have been in that room, but the_ monster _was all me._ The overwhelming weight of remorse that settled into the pit of his stomach was no surprise to him at all. John Watson had never been sorrier for his own rash actions, not in his entire life.

The sheer truth in his thoughts was more painful than any of his injuries, but he didn't shy away from that truth, he couldn't. The last few months had been bloody awful. Sherlock had made mistakes, yes. John had made _so_ many mistakes he'd stopped counting. Hell, even Mary had made mistakes. And yet none those mistakes warranted what Culverton had done to them. What the shark-like little man was continuing to do.

It wasn't until he'd been faced with truly losing his brilliant friend that John realized Sherlock depended on him with the same reckless intensity that John felt for him. And that bastard, Smith, would continued to use that dependence; he'd already use it, against both of them.

Knowing what he knew about the billionaire, there was very little chance that Smith would be satisfied with simply crushing John. There was every chance that that conniving little weasel would go after Sherlock, again.

Anger surged within him, sending much needed adrenaline pumping through his starving veins. _Over my dead body._ He seethed internally. John could not allow that bastard to destroy the fragile truce, the barely revealed forgiveness that he and his lanky friend had only just touched on.

 _Mary…God I wish you were here._ John hadn't meant to think about her and he found himself cringing away from the memories, waiting for the crushing despair to once again shroud his world in darkness and pain.

A women's voice floated through the air, barely reaching him with a soft, _"That won't happen again, John."_

A jolt of shock rocketed through him, and John twisted around, searching, ignoring the burning sensation of his body. "Mary?" he breathed out. Her perfume drifted across his dark prison and he nearly sobbed. He wasn't alone. No matter how this ended he would not die alone and forgotten.

Gentle fingers ghosted along his chin and he forced his blurry eyes to focus on the intense blue eyes that had captivated him instantly. He'd known that he was a lost cause, but she chose to _save_ him anyway and for that, he would always be grateful. Mary had pulled him back from the chasm of pain that Sherlock had left in the wake of his death. He'd been alone. He'd been lost.

" _You are never alone John. You must believe that."_ Her normally radiant smile was tinged with sadness as he gaze shifted, taking in the extent of his injuries. The azure color took on an impossible hue, a large tear dripping off her long lashes as she sank to her knees. _"My dearest John, what has he done to you?"_

Seeing Mary cry had always been hard for him. It always felt like he was seeing a side of her that stripped bare. Almost like she was someone that would _never_ cry. He hadn't understood why he felt that way when they met, but upon reflection of what he now knew, John was certain that it was because Mary. Did. Not. Cry. _Not. Ever_.

"I'll be fine. Give me a sling, a cuppa, and my comfy chair, and I'll be right as rain." He quipped only to groan when the words were tainted with his pain. Even _he_ wouldn't buy what he was trying sell. "Okay, so maybe it'll be a bit of a struggle, but I'll get through it."

She smiled through her tears, _"You always were the strong one."_ Mary leaned forward and placed a soft kiss against his lips. Almost as quickly as she'd started, she pulled away, _"You won't be alone, John. I promise you that. Our daughter will have both of you. He is coming. You_ do _know that, right?"_

There was no reason for him to question just 'whom' Mary was referring to, because John had no doubt that Sherlock was coming. Whether or not he should be wouldn't stop the lump-headed genius. He knew this was a simple truth. Sherlock would come for him.

"I know." He answered with a sigh, "But he shouldn't. It's a trap."

Mary snorted, _"Of course it's a trap. It's_ always _a trap. Sherlock knows that."_

John considered her words for a moment before saying, "He's not the same man Mary. Not since you died. Your death it… _broke_ something inside him."

She reached down, carefully cupping his face; _"It broke something inside you too. But that appears to be healing. So will he."_

His body shivered involuntarily sending waves of pain coursing through him as the cold sank into the very marrow of his bones. John gnashed his teeth together in an effort to hide it. Deep down he knew that he was worse off than he'd originally thought or he wouldn't be hallucinating a conversation with Mary. And she wouldn't be trying to convince him to hold on until someone figured out just where the bloody hell he was.

Culverton Smith owned so many properties across the British Isles, that the bastard could _literally_ be holding John almost anywhere.

John lifted pain-brightened eyes, "I did something that no one in the world had managed. I broke Sherlock Holmes." Even knowing that his friend had forgiven him did nothing to absolve his guilt.

No, absolution would take time and effort on John's part. He and Sherlock had started down that road, but now he wondered if they would ever get to complete that journey.

" _And Sherlock forgave you."_ She leaned forward, her lips ghosting over his bruised skin. _"You should try forgiving yourself."_

There was sudden 'pop' and the room was instantly plunged into darkness. Whatever warmth had been lingering by his side faded into the cold darkness and John felt his heart lurch with the sure knowledge that Mary was truly gone. She'd come to say goodbye in the only way she knew how, by pushing John back toward Sherlock and their weirdly _sane_ friendship.

221B 221B

Sherlock had been good at waiting, but the loss of his eyesight had improved that little problem. He was currently standing at the window staring out at a world that had lost its luster. For as long as he could remember, Sherlock had wanted to be something _important_.

His brother would have called him arrogant and commented on the hubris it took to want something based on another person's opinion. Not that Mycroft's opinion counted for much, and yet Sherlock had spent his life trying to somehow measure up to it. It wasn't until he met John that he realized that it wasn't necessarily Mycroft's approval he sought; it was his own. The doctor had somehow been a reflection of how he viewed his own actions, and that had been a bit of a shock to the detective.

There had been other people that were, _no scratch that, are,_ important to him. People that float around the periphery of Sherlock's brilliance, but if he was the Sun, then John was the Moon. And neither celestial body could function without the other.

He allowed his mind to drift into the devastated rooms of his mind palace.

 _The once orderly library housing all the facts he'd ever learned were now scattered, the pages ripped from their bindings. He frowned when he saw the shredded remains of a field manual on military strategy. The pages were curled and the ink had run so as to make the information nearly impossible to discern._

" _You really aught to take better care of my books."_

 _Sherlock spun around, his sharp gaze landing on John. His friend had righted the old flowered chair and sank into it, a cup of tea rested on the large arm._

" _John?!" he exclaimed before closing the distance between them and almost hauling his friend into a very 'unprofessional' and 'emotional' hug. Sherlock managed to stop himself just short of that._

 _Instead he focused his expression to one of mild interest, "You know, it is customary to offer a cup of tea when you yourself are enjoying one." There was no heat in the comment. As a matter of fact there was even a hint of humor lurking under the barbed words._

 _John raised his eyebrows and with slow deliberate movements he picked up the delicate cup and took a sip. His blue eyes never left Sherlock's as he ensured that the detective got his 'message'._

 _It was Sherlock's turn to respond to the 'shot across his bow' that was John drinking tea in front of him with no remorse at to the fact that he did not also have a cup._

 _He didn't even think about it when he leaned forward, looming over the seated doctor and promptly placed his long finger under the cup and proceeded to tip over pouring the hot tea into John's lap._

 _The doctor leapt up and danced around as the steaming liquid cooled, leaving a rather embossing stain on his trousers. "Bloody hell Sherlock!"_

 _The consulting detective had taken several steps away from the bouncing form of his best friend and was now smiling like a school child. "It's not nice when you can't share." He stated simply._

 _All movement from John stopped and he turned incredulous eyes on Sherlock. "Share? You've never shared a bloody thing in your entire life!"_

" _That's not true."_

" _Oh yes it is."_

 _Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "What about my flat?"_

 _The doctor's mouth dropped open and he was silent for a moment before saying, "You only shared your flat because you couldn't afford the rent."_

" _True. But does that diminish the simple fact that I_ did _share the rent payment with you?" He was now staring at John with a most perplexed look on his face. Didn't John understand that by sharing that burden, he'd been letting the doctor into his life? Something that Sherlock did not do easily, or often._

 _The mind palace version of John scoffed, "Are you trying to convince me or yourself?"_

 _All humor slipped away as Sherlock considered that question. Was he trying to convince himself that he'd allowed John into his world, when he knew that it was really the other way around? John had needed him as much as he'd needed the doctor. And it hadn't been about the rent._

 _Okay, it hadn't_ only _been about the rent. Sherlock had never realized just how lonely his life was. He'd spent so much of it becoming what other people needed in order to get what_ he _wanted from them. But with John it had been different._

" _It wasn't only about sharing the rent." He said softly, his blue-gray eyes lifting to meet John's gaze._

 _The doctor's expression softened and he stepped forward clapping his hand on Sherlock's arm. "I know that."_

" _Do you?" He pinched at the bridge of his nose, shaking his head slowly. "John if we're having this conversation in here, then I obviously don't believe that."_

 _With a heavy sigh John sank down into the chair, "Sherlock, what do you expect me to say here? I'm not the real John. I'm a version of him that lives inside your head. I can't answer the same way he would, because as well as you know him, John makes his own decisions. He has a way of looking at the world that your don't understand, therefore I can't answer the way he would. Not about this."_

 _No-John gestured around him, "He's already forgiven you, but look around; you obviously haven't accepted that. This place is a mess."_

 _Sherlock scowled as his eyes wandered around the room, "I don't currently have the ability to fix this."_

" _Is it because I'm missing?"_

" _That's a large part of it, yes."_

 _John steepled his fingers under his chin, "And the other part of it?"_

" _Oh, I think that's because of me." Mary's voice interrupted them as she stepped out of the shadows, her own face registering disappointment as she took in the disastrous state of Sherlock's mind._

" _Mary." Both men breathed out in unison._

 _She shook her head, "Sherlock, we have already talked about this." Her gaze shifted to John, "So did we." She picked up a book and gently placed back on the only standing shelf. "Both of you need to stop silently tearing yourselves up about my death." She turned angry blue eyes on them, "If anyone gets to be angry about it, it's me." Her expression softened, "And I'm not angry."_

 _Sherlock watched as she moved through the room like a whirlwind, righting shelves and tables, placing miraculously whole books back in their rightful places. Within a few moments his mind palace version of 221B was returned to its somewhat cluttered, but strangely organized state._

" _Mary—" he started, but she swung around and narrowed her eyes at him sending him into silence. She was one of only a few people in the entire world that had the ability to do that._

" _No, Sherlock. This is over. The sneaky guilt-ridden forays inside your mind are done. You have a job to do." Her eyes shifted to John's silent form and then back to him. "You have a doctor to save. Now go do it."_

 _And with those words Sherlock was propelled out of his own mind like he'd been shot out of cannon._

Mycroft was shaking him, hard.

"Would you stop that?!" he hissed in irritation.

"Happy to." His brother answered after one more unnecessarily _hard_ shake, and then taking a step back before, no doubt, looking at Sherlock as though he might break. At least he assumed that was the expression his brother was wearing; because that was the expression Mycroft always wore when dealing with him.

Sherlock swallowed and turned away from the window. The rain had started; he could hear it pelting the glass panes with a vengeance. So the increased blurriness of the street was not completely due to his own vision. Without looking at Mycroft he asked, "How long was I gone?"

"Long enough to get me out of my nice warm car and into this shamble of a flat." His brother answered in a flat tone.

Sherlock felt another bubble of irritation pop and he turned to stare at the blurry figure of his brother, "Careful, that's my home you're talking about."

A long-suffering sigh was his only answer. He knew that Mycroft wanted to say more, but he wisely chose to keep quiet.

He waited for several seconds for his brother to continue, when he didn't, "Did you find anything out?" Sherlock's brain switched gears so fast he was scrambling to catch up.

Mycroft nodded, "As a matter of fact, yes. Culverton Smith owns an old warehouse in Leeds—"

"So, he owns a lot of properties. What makes this one so special?"

"If you'll allow me to finish your first question, I'll tell you." The rebuke was clear in the older Holmes's tone and it silenced Sherlock. "Thank you. As I was saying, the warehouse is located in Leeds and it is not listed on any of his _official_ holdings. Which means Smith did not want anyone to know about this place—"

"Making it the perfect place to stash someone you don't want found." Lestrade interrupted as he stepped through the front door.

Sherlock spun around so quickly a wave of dizziness followed the movement. "Greg? What the hell are you doing here?" he managed despite his spinning head.

"I asked him." Mycroft answered sharply. "You aren't exactly in a state to offer much in the way of back-up, brother mine."

The truth of those words stabbed him in the heart and he couldn't find the strength to refute them. He was half the man he'd been before all this had gone down.

Several moments of uncomfortable silence followed the remark. With an effort that shocked even him, Sherlock chased the hurt feelings into a corner of his mind and locked them away. He didn't have time for _feelings_ or _emotional_ fallout right now. They needed to find John.

Swallowing so much of his pride that he thought he might choke on it, he said, "Thanks for coming Lestrade."

With that said, Sherlock was ushered from the room and tossed into the back of the waiting car. It wasn't his brother's usual classy jaguar. No, this was Lestrade's police cruiser. The wale of the siren as they barreled through London felt like a battle cry.

 _We're coming, John. Just hold on a bit longer._

221B 221B

John drifted in and out of awareness as the cold, the pain, and his own failing body took their toll. He hadn't moved in quite some time. But time passes differently when you've got nothing to weigh it against. So John simply drifted…his heart rate was starting slow as the cold drove deeper into his core. He wanted to move, to scream, to do anything that might reawaken his will to survive. But when the light had gone out, it had taken that part of him with it.

Just as he felt a shuddering breath rattle through his chest, he heard it…

 _We're coming, John. Just hold on a bit longer._

TBC…

 _ **Author's note**_ _: Massive apologies for being so absent. I have relocated, changed jobs, and taken on a ghost-writing project that have stolen my extra moments I use for this and several other stories on here. I am going to try very hard to rectify this as I really do love writing these characters and their stories._

 **Please, if you have a moment, leave me a review?**

12


	16. Destinations Unknown

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This was supposed to only be a couple of chapters and yet the best laid plans and all. This story deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 _ **Previous Chapter…**_

Sherlock swallowed and turned away from the window. The rain had started; he could hear it pelting the glass panes with a vengeance. So the increased blurriness of the street was not completely due to his own vision. Without looking at Mycroft he asked, "How long was I gone?"

"Long enough to get me out of my nice warm car and into this shamble of a flat." His brother answered in a flat tone.

Sherlock felt another bubble of irritation pop and he turned to stare at the blurry figure of his brother, "Careful, that's my home you're talking about."

A long-suffering sigh was his only answer. He knew that Mycroft wanted to say more, but he wisely chose to keep quiet.

He waited for several seconds for his brother to continue, when he didn't, "Did you find anything out?" Sherlock's brain switched gears so fast he was scrambling to catch up.

Mycroft nodded, "As a matter of fact, yes. Culverton Smith owns an old warehouse in Leeds—"

"So, he owns a lot of properties. What makes this one so special?"

"If you'll allow me to finish your first question, I'll tell you." The rebuke was clear in the older Holmes's tone and it silenced Sherlock. "Thank you. As I was saying, the warehouse is located in Leeds and it is not listed on any of his _official_ holdings. Which means Smith did not want anyone to know about this place—"

"Making it the perfect place to stash someone you don't want found." Lestrade interrupted as he stepped through the front door.

Sherlock spun around so quickly a wave of dizziness followed the movement. "Greg? What the hell are you doing here?" he managed despite his spinning head.

"I asked him." Mycroft answered sharply. "You aren't exactly in a state to offer much in the way of back-up, brother mine."

The truth of those words stabbed him in the heart and he couldn't find the strength to refute them. He was half the man he'd been before all this had gone down.

Several moments of uncomfortable silence followed the remark. With an effort that shocked even him, Sherlock chased the hurt feelings into a corner of his mind and locked them away. He didn't have time for _feelings_ or _emotional_ fallout right now. They needed to find John.

Swallowing so much of his pride that he thought he might choke on it, he said, "Thanks for coming Lestrade."

With that said, Sherlock was ushered from the room and tossed into the back of the waiting car. It wasn't his brother's usual classy jaguar. No, this was Lestrade's police cruiser. The wale of the siren as they barreled through London felt like a battle cry.

 _We're coming, John. Just hold on a bit longer._

221B 221B

John drifted in and out of awareness as the cold, the pain, and his own failing body took their toll. He hadn't moved in quite some time. But time passes differently when you've got nothing to weigh it against. So John simply drifted…his heart rate was starting to slow as the cold drove deeper, surrounding his core with ice. He wanted to move, to scream, to do anything that might reawaken his will to survive. But when the light had gone out, it had taken that part of him with it and there was just nothing left. He had nothing to give.

Just as John felt a shuddering breath rattle through his chest, he heard it…

 _We're coming, John. Just hold on a bit longer._ The deep baritone was unmistakable and he found his lips parting in a small smile despite his desperate situation.

 _ **End of Previous Chapter…**_

 **Chapter 16**

 _Destinations Unknown_

Lestrade kept glancing over his shoulder to the silent man in the back. Sherlock had been uncharacteristically non-hyperverbal, which was a bit of a concern for anyone who knew the consulting detective well, or at least as well he would allow anyone who was _not_ John Watson to know him. The last several months had been some of the most difficult of his life, watching as his friend had drifted further and further into his addiction. Greg knew that it was the only way someone like Sherlock could cope with the torrents of emotion threatening to drown every part of him, but that didn't make it any easier to witness first hand.

The lawman cringed as he took in the thin frame, sunken cheeks, and blank eyes of his friend. While it was true that the death of Mary Watson had been the result of Sherlock's inability to let things go, it hadn't been completely his fault. John's wife had played a large part in her own demise.

Everyone familiar with the case was aware of this and yet sitting quietly in the backseat was the only person who didn't seem able to share the burden of her death. It had been awful watching Sherlock careen over the edge of his addiction. It had been terrifying to see the splattered remains of the once brilliant man.

Oh, don't get him wrong; Lestrade knew exactly how _smart_ the other man was, even hopped up on every nasty concoction under the bloody sun! Some things really weren't fair. Although, when considering the way Sherlock chose to deal with his _brilliance,_ Lestrade wasn't sure he'd want it.

With a sigh, Greg pulled his attention away from his friend and turned it toward Mycroft. The tall thin man was typing something into that infernal phone of his and since the DI knew that he hated to text, it was probably something he couldn't speak of in front of mixed company.

Pressing his lips together in frustration he asked, "What else do we know?" Greg was fairly certain that the other man hadn't shared all of his information. Mycroft Holmes was a man with many many secrets and getting a straight answer out of him was frustratingly difficult. Kind of like trying push a limp noodle through a hotdog.

The image that stirred made his lips quark at the edges.

The posh man in the seat next to him raised an eyebrow, "I have imparted everything I know at this time." Mycroft shifted his gaze back to his phone without another word.

The haughty tone grated on the DI's nerves, grinding his teeth together he tried to keep from responding. The rustle of fabric from the backseat distracted him long enough to avoid saying what he really wanted to say to the _posh bastard_.

"You okay back there?" As soon as the words left his lips he regretted them.

Sherlock inhaled sharply, "I'm fine." He bit out.

Mycroft lifted his gaze, rolled his eyes and then looked over his shoulder, "Are you really? Because the angle at which you are holding your body suggests otherwise."

The dark-haired man cringed at the accurate accounting of his lie. Lestrade's eyebrows drew together as he listened to the brothers. He'd never had a relationship like that with anyone. Possibly because he didn't have a brother, and yet watching these two argue like old women was something of an eye opener for him.

Mycroft sighed heavily, like dealing with his little brother was the most bothersome thing in the entire world. But Greg had been there when they'd though Sherlock was really going to die and he'd seen the pain wracking through the elder Holmes. While the average person could not comprehend either one of them, they did love one another.

Sherlock would argue that point of course, but the truth was…he relied on his older brother's steadfast strength far more than anyone knew.

"Why did Culverton fixate on you?" he wondered aloud.

Silence reigned supreme inside the car for several long moments before Sherlock finally answered, "He wanted someone to break. A person that hadn't been broken before." His admission was soft and heavy with regret.

Mycroft scratched at his ear, "But that wasn't really you, now was it Sherlock. You've been broken many times over the course of your lifetime."

Lestrade wanted to stop the car and smack the insensitive arsehole sitting next him. When a person was in the midst of a crisis, one simply did _not_ call their faults and failings out in such a callous manner. Slowly he let his eyes slide sideways until he caught Mycroft's attention, then he widened his eyes in a ' _what the fuck was that'_ look.

"I only meant that if that was truly Smith's motivation, he could have found someone who was not a recovering addict with a hero complex." Mycroft amended.

 _Totally missed the point here, didn't you?_ Lestrade thought silently.

Sherlock remained distressingly silent and they all knew he had an opinion on this, because he _always_ had an opinion.

221B 221B

With a heavy heart Sherlock listened to his brother and the DI discuss him like he wasn't in the vehicle. Part of him knew that he deserved it, and part of him detested how easy it was to find his faults.

Unbeknownst to his arrogant elder brother, Sherlock was not as obtuse he assumed. He knew he wasn't a nice man or even a kind man, but John made him better than that. The friendship he'd built with the doctor over the past years had altered something fundamental inside him.

Without meaning to, John had awakened Sherlock to his own humanity. And while he claimed to be a _sociopath,_ he knew that wasn't quite true, at least not in the strictest sense of the word. He intentionally barred people from creating an emotional mess in order to protect his work. It was a pleasant byproduct that he also kept the unwanted core of himself from suffering as well, but he hadn't been able to guard against John Watson.

Perhaps it was that he'd never really wanted to. He'd been on the verge of reverting to old _habits_ the day that John had limped into the lab in St. Barts. Had it not been for Mike Stamford's meddling, Sherlock would have jumped off the proverbial wagon. He'd already reached out to Billy, his supplier, and he'd been fully prepared to go on a long well deserved _bender_.

But John Watson had changed all that. The way that John had look at Sherlock when he'd correctly deduced that he was a soldier recently back from Afghanistan had given the consulting detective a _high_ on a level that so far exceeded Heroine that he'd forgotten all about his previous plans.

It had taken a long for Sherlock to accept that he _needed_ John in his life; he didn't function with the same intensity without the ex-army doctor at his side. The first time he'd realized that fact had been standing next to the pool staring at John wrapped in Semtex. A fear unlike anything he'd experienced had burst through him and he'd struggled to control the unwanted flood of emotion.

That had been the moment when he'd truly understood just how integral John had become to him. Without meaning to Sherlock had allowed someone other than Mycroft into his inner circle and it had been a terrifying revelation.

Add six years and hundreds of cases to that? Well, John was now so woven into Sherlock's life that he was incapable of working without the doctor's input. Oh it wasn't that John was adding deductions to the cases for anything, he wasn't able to the see the tiny details that peppered every case they worked on. But John was able to understand the emotions of the people they dealt with. He was able to guide Sherlock's genius into a constructive pattern that could be easily interpreted. In short, he was bloody brilliant.

Swallowing the thick emotions clogging his throat, Sherlock allowed his blurry gaze to shift to the rapidly passing colors. Lestrade's vehicle was flying down the road at a speed that the consulting detective was sure wasn't remotely legal and he couldn't help being grateful.

Sherlock had barely survived losing John after Mary's death and the man had only been incredibly angry with him. How would the sociopath go on if John actually _died_? With a shiver, he knew that he wouldn't go on. He couldn't. Because John's death would be more than a tragedy, it would mean the complete unraveling of Sherlock's carefully constructed world. While he wasn't really capable of having relationships, the dark-haired man had developed an unlikely _friendship_ with the doctor and it filled whatever subconscious need he had for companionship.

John was the light to his darkness, the steady sunshine to his stormy turbulence, and there wasn't a chance in Hell that Sherlock would open himself again. Watson was it. He was the only true friend that the detective would ever allow himself to have and he would not accept the man's loss.

A pang of guilt sliced through him leaving a gushing sense of responsibility for John's current predicament. If Sherlock hadn't been so desperate to do what Mary had requested, he might have seen the trail of clues that Culverton had been leaving in his wake. He hadn't been a particularly brilliant serial killer, but he had been one of the more careful ones Sherlock had dealt with. Between the drugs and his emotional destruction, the addict hadn't comprehended what the billionaire had been threatening in his hospital room, at least not entirely. Looking back, Sherlock wanted to flog himself for his _distraction_.

 _I will not allow you to pay for my inept handling of this case, John._ He made the mental promise knowing that if he couldn't keep it, the doctor wouldn't be the only one their friends would be burying. The day he'd decided to fake his own death had been a small victory over his determination to actually end his life if it meant saving John, Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade. But in the end it had cost him more dearly than he'd ever imagined possible.

221B 221B

 _Slipping into his mind palace, Sherlock searched for anything that might help them bring down the well-connected man bent of destroying them. It was a testament to his current mental state that he didn't even notice that he'd used a plural instead of a singular form when referring to the case. It hadn't been until the night he'd shot Magnusson to save John the pain of losing Mary that he'd realized how deeply his friendship with the doctor had routed itself inside him._

 _With a sigh, he combed his fingers through his curly dark hair and turned toward the towering walls of stored information. The long corridors led to individualized rooms, which in turn help carefully categorized books. He was proud of what he'd accomplished as he walked through the well-lit hallway. The lights were bright and inviting, something they hadn't been before his bought with blindness._

 _While the dark had never really bothered him as a child, being forced live inside it had altered his previously held opinion on this subject. Finally he saw his destination, reaching out he noticed there was a slight shake to his slender hand._

' _Great, will I never be rid of these infernal weaknesses?'_

 _Rolling his eyes, Sherlock ignored his transport's continued evidence of his less than perfect state of health. Not that he had ever been 'perfectly' healthy to begin with, but still he generally did not tremble with the effort of opening a door. The rush of irritation was not unexpected, but it was unwelcome. He needed his mind and body focused on the task at hand._

" _You won't find the answers you seek in there."_

 _Allowing his eyelids to drop closed, Sherlock groaned before turning toward the voice. Leaning against the doorway of yet another room was Moriarty. He was wearing a dark tailored Westwood suit and picking at his fingernails with a long ornate knife._

 _Sherlock's irritation hit an all-time high, "That is the knife used to kill Julius Ceasar and you are using to dig under your fingernails?!"_

 _Moriarty shrugged with indifference, "It's still just a knife." Pushing off the wall he closed the distance between them and held the blade up for Sherlock to see. "It is simply a tightly knit set of atoms creating a composition that can be formed into a weapon."_

 _When Sherlock didn't so much as blink at his explanation, he raised his eyebrow and lifted the ruby and emerald encrusted hilt closer. Again he didn't get the reaction he was apparently seeking, because he huffed and flipped it over before placing the blade against the taller man's cheek._

 _A sharp intake of breath from the detective had him smiling as he ran the cold blade over the pale skin. Moriarty trailed the tip down Sherlock's jawline leaving a tingling feeling everyplace the metal touched his skin. He didn't move, didn't breathe for fear of the psychopath taking this 'lesson' to another level, one, which would include pain and blood._

 _While it was true that this was 'his' mind palace and he could control certain aspects of it, Moriarty was the one exception to the rule. No matter how many times Sherlock thought he'd killed the virus, it always came back. Moriarty 'always' came back._

 _When it became apparent that the shorter consulting criminal had no intention of eliciting any pain today, Sherlock shifted his neck away and turned to stare down at him with blazing eyes._

" _I do not have time to deal with you today." He shoved forward causing the smaller man to stumble backward._

 _Against his own better judgment, Sherlock returned to opening the door. Harsh laughter rang through the air behind him._

" _You can't save him Sherlock. You're not the hero. Surely you've realized this by now?"_

 _Grinding his teeth together, the detective ignored the jibe._

 _The lights inside the room sprang to life like they were on a sensor switch as soon as the door gave beneath his insistent pushing. This room represented the sum total of Sherlock's knowledge about Culverton Smith. It was woefully empty by comparison to his many other rooms._

 _A low whistle split the air and he turned his cold flinty gaze to where Moriarty now perched on the edge of an expensive coffee table. The room was furnished based on Culverton's tastes. Cold monochromatic marble was everywhere; hard uncomfortable chairs lined a far wall. There was nothing 'homey' about this place, just like there was nothing 'homey' about the billionaire._

" _He has excellent taste." The criminal mastermind exclaimed with a nod of approval._

" _You 'would' like it." Sherlock grumbled softly._

 _Moriarty smiled, "Before John Watson, you would have liked it too."_

 _Glancing around Sherlock found he couldn't argue that fact. Beyond the extravagant price tag associated with this type of furniture, it was a logical choice. The marble would outlast wood, it would not invite insects or mold, and the hard Victorian furniture had stood the test of time. Wincing inwardly, Sherlock turned from James Moriarty and limped toward the bookcases._

" _Oh come now Sherlock, you know I'm right and ignoring won't make me 'poof' and disappear." His voice dropped low, taking on a menacing tone, "…like John did after you killed his wife."_

 _Sherlock's back tensed, his hand frozen in mid-air where he'd been reaching for a book and he closed his eyes searching for the strength to ignore the truth behind Moriarty's words._

" _You know it's true. Had you just let things go, Mary would be alive and she and John would have their perfect life with Rosie."_

 _Every word sliced through Sherlock's heart, emotionally bleeding him out._

" _Perhaps it would be kinder if you just let John Watson die?"_

 _The warm puff of air on his neck sent shivers through the taller man. He hadn't realized that James had moved. He felt the tip of the blade slide suggestively along the back of his neck just above the collar of his suit._

" _At least that way, John will be back with his beloved Mary and you can get on with killing yourself one needle at a time."_

" _That was a one time thing. I promised—" he nearly choked on her name. "—Mary."_

 _James laughed cruelly, "Oh, alright then. Explain all the other times they found you off your tits on some concoction?"_

 _Sherlock swallowed thickly. He didn't have an answer for that._

 _James dragged the knife down pressing it against the base of his neck hard enough that Sherlock winced. He leaned in, "You aren't the strong one, Sherlock." He whispered, "You never were." The tip of the knife slid along his neck coming to rest just above his collarbone. "Is it possible that you've been deceiving yourself about that?"_

" _I know what I am."_

" _Do you?"_

 _Sherlock slowly turned so that he was face to face with his own personal demon. The sharp end of the blade was now resting just below his Adam's apple, pressing suggestively into the soft flesh there. "I am a man out of time. I don't fit. Not anywhere."_

" _Glad you—"_

 _Leaning into the knife he interrupted the vicious words, "The only exception to that is John Watson." His voice hardened into steel and his pale eyes sparked with conviction, "He is my friend. He is my 'only' friend. And for whatever reason he chose to be that, I will not abandon him to a painful lonely death at the hands of some fucked up little man." Sherlock pressed harder into the point, ignoring the flash of pain as it broke the skin and the expected warm wetness soaked into his blue dress shirt._

" _Here here!" John's voice interrupted the battle of wills._

 _Sherlock jerked his head sideways, his mouth falling open in surprise to find his doctor standing casually in the doorway, applauding._

 _Moriarty groaned in displeasure and faded into the background as the detective stepped toward his friend. John hadn't been present in his mind palace for some time now. Not since their last argument about the lack of care Sherlock showed toward the doctor's books._

" _You're here." The inane comment had worked its' past his lips before he thought better of it._

 _John's ashy eyebrows rose in response, his eyes dancing with humor, "I should think that's quite obvious." He replied, easily stealing Sherlock's patented answer for anything he felt was ridiculous or boring._

 _A smile twitched at the edges of the taller man's pale lips, "Where have you been?"_

 _John inhaled deeply, "You locked me away, Sherlock. I wasn't allowed to be here." He stepped closer to the gobsmacked detective, "Not until now."_

" _I don't understand. I didn't—"_

" _You did." The army doctor said quietly. "I know you don't understand Sherlock. But it doesn't really matter, now does it." It wasn't a question, but a statement and John's tone brooked no arguments._

 _The doctor's intelligent eyes flicked to the bookcase, "Weren't you looking for something?"_

 _Sherlock gulped back his shock before nodding, suddenly reminded of his task. Turning back toward the bookcase he pulled down the volume he'd been looking for. It was a collection of tabloid articles about Smith._

 _John chortled when he saw what the book really was. "Trash mags? That's what you were looking for?"_

 _With a huff of indignation Sherlock turned back toward his friend. "John, must I always relate to you the importance of being thorough when gathering facts about a case?"_

" _Facts? Truly?" Disbelief layered those two words and conveyed his unspoken thoughts on the subject quite clearly._

 _Narrowing his gray eyes in irritation Sherlock continued, "One must always avail one's self of every resource regardless of the socially acceptable nature of it."_

 _John chuckled good-naturedly._

" _Besides, I find that while there is generally very little factual information in the trash mags, there is usually a grain of truth buried within the salacious gossip."_

" _Can't you just say that you like to read them?"_

 _It was Sherlock's turn to raise an eyebrow, "I do not 'enjoy' them."_

" _Yeah you do."_

" _And how would know what I enjoy?" he questioned slowly, rising to the bate John had lain out._

 _The shorter man stepped forward, placing his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Because I am your 'friend' and I know you better than anyone in this world." All humor had slipped from John's expression. All that remained was the earnest desire that Sherlock believe what he was saying._

 _A rush of emotions caused Sherlock to drop his eyes from the warmth he read in John's eyes. Before the uncomfortable silence could go on too long, John removed his hand and pointed at the collection, "So what are you hoping to find in there?"_

 _Mentally collecting himself, Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know yet, I haven't read it."_

" _Then by all means, please continue searching for a way to save me." John replied before seating himself on one of the uncomfortable sofas._

221B 221B

Sherlock was abruptly thrown of out of his own mind when the car rolled to a stop. His head was bursting with both ridiculous observations and gossip that might actually help them take down Culverton once and for all.

He was surprised when his vision shifted from the prefect clarity of his mind palace to the hazy images of his reality. With great effort he buried the disappointment that he still wasn't back to normal.

 _Normal, if that term can be applied to me at all._ He thought bitterly.

Lestrade was already climbing from the vehicle when Sherlock grabbed the handle and pushed. He was unpleasantly surprised to realize that his lock did not disengage. With a frown, he pulled again before turning incredulous eyes on both his _rubbish olde_ r brother, from whom he expected this kind of betrayal, to his, now, _ex-_ detective friend.

Leaning his head against the window, "Greg, don't do this." He whispered desperately.

To his credit, the detective inspector had the good sense to look conflicted about locking Sherlock in the back of the police cruiser.

"It's for your own good Sherlock." Mycroft said as he came to stand next to the DI. "You can't see and you will only be a liability at this point." He sighed audibly, "I am sorry, brother mine."

Anger raged inside Sherlock's stormy eyes as he glared out at the two men that were _benching_ him. Not for the good of the game, but for his own _protection_. "Let. Me. Out. Of. Here." His low voice promised painful retribution if he was not obeyed.

Lestrade fidgeted, uncomfortable with Sherlock's threatening tone.

Mycroft shook his head, "No." he answered simply before turning away from the vehicle and striding toward the warehouse. It was a final decree that the younger Holmes knew he couldn't alter. His brother had always been like iron when he'd made his mind up about something and no amount of _logic_ from him was going to change that.

Sherlock screamed in frustration when they disappeared inside a barely visible blurry building in the distance.

TBC…

 _ **Author's Note**_ … _Okay, so rescue in the next chapter. (Holds hand to heart) Promise. I do hope people are still reading this despite the long drawn out nature of the "emotions and feels" throughout. And I also promise that Culverton Smith has something unexpected coming. Something that only Sherlock knows._

 **Reviews?: If you have a moment, please let me know if anyone is still following this?**


	17. Suicidal Tendencies

**Author's Note:** This story is a one-off or a tag to an existing episode that I couldn't get out of my mind. This is NOT SLASH. Friendship only between Sherlock and John in this one. Although if you squint or were goggles, you can read it anyway you like.

**An AU tag to the scene in "The Lying Detective", what if John went too far in his anger? And the injury to Sherlock was more than just the damage of the drugs? How would the doctor deal with learning what Sherlock had done to 'save him' and what he had _to_ Sherlock? I was struck by John's reactions as he watched Mary explain her final request to Sherlock.** LOTS OF ANGST IN THIS ONE…

 ** _PLEASE REVIEW:_** _This was supposed to only be a couple of chapters and yet the best laid plans and all. This story deals with the aftermath of the morgue beating. I think it was glossed over and I wonder what would have happened if John had gone too far and risked losing Sherlock as a result of his own actions. Cheers!_

 **Disclaimer:** Sherlock does not belong to me…such a shame…it is the brainchild of Arthur Conan Doyle and the current iteration belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss and PBS Masterpiece (although the genius behind the relationship between Sherlock and John is the character interpretation by Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman). I am not making any money off this; it is purely for the story monkeys in my head and anyone else that wants to read.

 _ **Previous Chapter…**_

" _You know it's true. Had you just let things go, Mary would be alive and she and John would have their perfect life with Rosie."_

 _Every word sliced through Sherlock's heart, emotionally bleeding him out._

" _Perhaps it would be kinder if you just let John Watson die?"_

 _The warm puff of air on his neck sent shivers through the taller man. He hadn't realized that James had moved. He felt the tip of the blade slide suggestively along the back of his neck just above the collar of his suit._

" _At least that way, John will be back with his beloved Mary and you can get on with killing yourself one needle at a time."_

" _That was a one time thing. I promised—" he nearly choked on her name. "—Mary."_

 _James laughed cruelly, "Oh, alright then. Explain all the other times they found you off your tits on some concoction?"_

 _Sherlock swallowed thickly. He didn't have an answer for that._

 _James dragged the knife down pressing it against the base of his neck hard enough that Sherlock winced. He leaned in, "You aren't the strong one, Sherlock." He whispered, "You never were." The tip of the knife slid along his neck coming to rest just above his collarbone. "Is it possible that you've been deceiving yourself about that?"_

" _I know what I am."_

" _Do you?"_

 _Sherlock slowly turned so that he was face to face with his own personal demon. The sharp end of the blade was now resting just below his Adam's apple, pressing suggestively into the soft flesh there. "I am a man out of time. I don't fit. Not anywhere."_

" _Glad you—"_

 _Leaning into the knife he interrupted the vicious words, "The only exception to that is John Watson." His voice hardened into steel and his pale eyes sparked with conviction, "He is my friend. He is my 'only' friend. And for whatever reason he chose to be that, I will not abandon him to a painful lonely death at the hands of some fucked up little man." Sherlock pressed harder into the point, ignoring the flash of pain as it broke the skin and the expected warm wetness soaked into his blue dress shirt._

" _Here here!" John's voice interrupted the battle of wills._

 _Sherlock jerked his head sideways, his mouth falling open in surprise to find his doctor standing casually in the doorway, applauding._

 _Moriarty groaned in displeasure and faded into the background as the detective stepped toward his friend. John hadn't been present in his mind palace for some time now. Not since their last argument about the lack of care Sherlock showed toward the doctor's books._

" _You're here." The inane comment had worked its' past his lips before he thought better of it._

 _John's ashy eyebrows rose in response, his eyes dancing with humor, "I should think that's quite obvious." He replied, easily stealing Sherlock's patented answer for anything he felt was ridiculous or boring._

 _A smile twitched at the edges of the taller man's pale lips, "Where have you been?"_

 _John inhaled deeply, "You locked me away, Sherlock. I wasn't allowed to be here." He stepped closer to the gobsmacked detective, "Not until now."_

" _I don't understand. I didn't—"_

" _You did." The army doctor said quietly. "I know you don't understand Sherlock. But it doesn't really matter, now does it." It wasn't a question, but a statement and John's tone brooked no arguments._

 _The doctor's intelligent eyes flicked to the bookcase, "Weren't you looking for something?"_

 _Sherlock gulped back his shock before nodding, suddenly reminded of his task. Turning back toward the bookcase he pulled down the volume he'd been looking for. It was a collection of tabloid articles about Smith._

 _John chortled when he saw what the book really was. "Trash mags? That's what you were looking for?"_

 _With a huff of indignation Sherlock turned back toward his friend. "John, must I always relate to you the importance of being thorough when gathering facts about a case?"_

" _Facts? Truly?" Disbelief layered those two words and conveyed his unspoken thoughts on the subject quite clearly._

 _Narrowing his gray eyes in irritation Sherlock continued, "One must always avail one's self of every resource regardless of the socially acceptable nature of it."_

 _John chuckled good-naturedly._

" _Besides, I find that while there is generally very little factual information in the trash mags, there is usually a grain of truth buried within the salacious gossip."_

" _Can't you just say that you like to read them?"_

 _It was Sherlock's turn to raise an eyebrow, "I do not 'enjoy' them."_

" _Yeah you do."_

" _And how would know what I enjoy?" he questioned slowly, rising to the bate John had lain out._

 _The shorter man stepped forward, placing his hand on Sherlock's arm. "Because I am your 'friend' and I know you better than anyone in this world." All humor had slipped from John's expression. All that remained was the earnest desire that Sherlock believe what he was saying._

 _A rush of emotions caused Sherlock to drop his eyes from the warmth he read in John's eyes. Before the uncomfortable silence could go on too long, John removed his hand and pointed at the collection, "So what are you hoping to find in there?"_

 _Mentally collecting himself, Sherlock shrugged. "I don't know yet, I haven't read it."_

" _Then by all means, please continue searching for a way to save me." John replied before seating himself on one of the uncomfortable sofas._

221B 221B

Sherlock was abruptly thrown of out of his own mind when the car rolled to a stop. His head was bursting with both ridiculous observations and gossip that might actually help them take down Culverton once and for all.

He was surprised when his vision shifted from the prefect clarity of his mind palace to the hazy images of his reality. With great effort he buried the disappointment that he still wasn't back to normal.

 _Normal, if that term can be applied to me at all._ He thought bitterly.

Lestrade was already climbing from the vehicle when Sherlock grabbed the handle and pushed. He was unpleasantly surprised to realize that his lock did not disengage. With a frown, he pulled again before turning incredulous eyes on both his _rubbish olde_ r brother, from whom he expected this kind of betrayal, to his, now, _ex-_ detective friend.

Leaning his head against the window, "Greg, don't do this." He whispered desperately.

To his credit, the detective inspector had the good sense to look conflicted about locking Sherlock in the back of the police cruiser.

"It's for your own good Sherlock." Mycroft said as he came to stand next to the DI. "You can't see and you will only be a liability at this point." He sighed audibly, "I am sorry, brother mine."

Anger raged inside Sherlock's stormy eyes as he glared out at the two men that were _benching_ him. Not for the good of the game, but for his own _protection_. "Let. Me. Out. Of. Here." His low voice promised painful retribution if he was not obeyed.

Lestrade fidgeted, uncomfortable with Sherlock's threatening tone.

Mycroft shook his head, "No." he answered simply before turning away from the vehicle and striding toward the warehouse. It was a final decree that the younger Holmes knew he couldn't alter. His brother had always been like iron when he'd made his mind up about something and no amount of _logic_ from him was going to change that.

Sherlock screamed in frustration when they disappeared inside a barely visible blurry building in the distance.

 _ **-End of Previous Chapter-**_

 **Chapter 17**

 _Suicidal Tendencies_

John lay in the complete darkness of his _prison_ without twitching a single muscle. It wasn't that he didn't want to move; he did but the whims of his mind were no longer concerned with his traitorous muscles. The biting cold had managed to leech through his skin freezing the previously active electrical impulses; the ones that told his body to shiver. As a result, a strange _paralysis_ had overtaken his body. He was the helpless victim of his traitorous muscles.

A sharp pain lancing thought his shoulder made him want to writhe, and yet the thought of moving was too much for his shocked and numbed mind. At this juncture, the mere act of breathing was excruciating.

John was unpleasantly reminded of Sherlock's unyielding stance that, "breathing is boring". _Poncy bastard._ The thought of his best friend caused a ripple of humor to run through him. His facial muscles refused to react so he gave up trying.

Regarding his current predicament, the doctor found that he couldn't quite agree with his brilliant friend on the subject of breathing. John was quite sure that _breathing_ was quite necessary to ones continued survival. He would've been pleasantly surprised to have even a moment of respite from the constant burning pain erupting along every nerve each time he managed to _breathe_.

In an effort to derail his current line of thinking, he again took stock of his _prison._ The room was silent; so silent it created a _noise_ of its own. It sounded very much like a rushing river. Considering that thought, he found that the rushing blood between his ears sounded like a raging waterfall.

John wanted nothing more than for it to all _stop_. He was desperately tired and tragically aware of the loneliness that would likely never ease off. With only his thoughts for a companion, he had never felt as truly _alone_ as he did at this moment.

Harry had left him years ago. She'd removed herself from his life despite all that he'd done to keep her safe when they were younger. It still hurt in places he would vehemently deny exist. His own flesh and blood hadn't given a damn about what happened to him and he'd come to believe that he somehow _deserved_ this loneliness.

Mary had left him too. And while she hadn't meant to, the choices that she made during the last year of her life had proven that he wasn't _enough_.

This abandonment had become an unrelenting pattern in his life. One that he didn't much care for; if he was being completely honest.

Hell, even Sherlock hadn't cared enough to enlighten the good doctor about his supposed _suicide._ The damn idiot had left John vulnerable to the demons of his past as he sought to secure their future. _Bloody posh bastard!_

With a bitterness that belied his usually amiable nature, John found himself lumping his best friend into the group of "abandoners". Sherlock hadn't come for him, perhaps John had been wrong to place so much _faith_ in a man that would likely laugh at him for his misplaced belief.

The fact that John was lying _alone_ in an abandoned warehouse because he'd decided to _forgive_ Sherlock's many transgressions; was something of a Greek tragedy. A bubble of hysterical laughter worked through him causing a cascade of mind-numbing agony. When the pain subsided to a manageable level his thoughts returned to his _friend._

The former army doctor wasn't sure if his current condition was the result of his own failings or those of the _good_ detective. Truthfully, it didn't really matter.

Many things in his life were unclear, but one thing his years in the military and later his friendship with Sherlock had taught him, John would likely die alone and bloody.

Hell, God only knew if his sociopathic best friend was even capable of caring about that.

 _Yeah, my life really is a pile of shite…_

The part of him that wasn't in distressed pain or mired in deep-seated doubt hoped that he was wrong. The problem was that that part of him was buried so deep under the doubt and self-recrimination that John was no longer aware of it.

He took a shuddering breath, causing the darkness to close in around him. There was nothing left for him to focus on inside the black prison, and John Watson was not a man that should be left with nothing but his memories for company.

The jagged edges of his past were shredding his desire to _have_ a future and he simply didn't have the strength to stop them anymore.

" _Hold on John! I am coming. I cannot lose you to the darkness. Please…who will save me when you're gone?"_ Sherlock's broken whisper penetrated the cycle of self-hated in a way that nothing else could have.

John managed to lift his head, turning it in the direction of his friend's desperate plea. "I'm trying." The harsh rasp that slipped between his chapped bleeding lips was ragged and broken. An unpleasant feeling worked up through his chest forcing him to do the one thing he desperately didn't want to, move.

John's head exploded in blistering pain as he heaved in the crisp cold air and then force his lungs to expel it in hacking coughs. No longer aware of anything but his own pain and the misery of his life, John slipped into blissful black of unconsciousness.

221B 221B

Sherlock pounded on the glass. He was shocked when he learned that not only was the glass bulletproof, but apparently it was also "angry, _sociopathic,_ younger brother Holmes", proof. _Fucking hell!_ He thought as a haze of red descended. Something more than anger consumed him as he stared at the unrelenting material. No matter how hard he drilled his fists into the cold unmovable barrier between himself and the outside world, it would not break.

It felt like a metaphor for his life. Since he'd been young he'd been doomed to watch the world, but never be _truly_ in touch with it. John had changed that…

Raging emotions swirled inside him threatening to shatter what little sanity he'd managed to reclaim. He'd had a plan. He had devised a way to save John. At least he thought he'd done that; and now he'd never know, and all because his shoddy older brother didn't trust him to 'stay alive'?

 _Right bloody git! I had a plan Mycroft. Dammit!_

And then there was Lestrade to consider. He and the Sherlock's so-called big _brother_ had thrown his help away, like he offered nothing of value. A part of him wondered if this was what his life would be like now? Would he be sat in the corner like a petulant child when others were unable to cope with his new blurry reality?

If his eyesight never fully returned, would everyone around him _sideline_ his attempts to help at every opportunity? In order to protect him, would they stick him in a 'padded room' for his own safety? A ribbon of cold fear wrapped around his heart and Sherlock knew what they didn't; he wouldn't survive something like that.

 _Hell, would I even want to?_ _And what about John? Other than me, who is protecting him? And Rosie?!_ Some time ago, Sherlock wasn't even sure when, he'd been shocked to learn that he considered his friend's future irrevocably tied to his own. There would be no future for Sherlock Holmes without a _John Watson_ ; there couldn't be.

How could they ever think that he would simply accept any of this? How could they believe that he could or would be able to _live_ with it?

Another scream of impotent rage ripped itself from his throat in a painfully audible display of his acute misery.

Without thinking he rammed his already bruised knuckles into the glass again, desperation had deleted all of his higher cognitive functions. Pain radiated outward as the skin split open and the unmistakable smell of blood filled the back seat of the car. The droplets ran along his knuckles landing with a distinct "plop" on the leather of Lestrade's back seat. Ignoring the pain he glanced up, there was now a distinctly blurry smudge of red marring his view of the outside world; he bloody well hated it.

" _Calm down Sherlock. You can't help me if you can't use that overly active brain of yours."_ John's soft admonition cut through his madness giving the ground he needed to refocus his attention.

Spinning his dark head toward the empty space beside him Sherlock felt his anger drain away at the heart-stopping and very tangible lack of the one and only _John Watson._ The man that should always be sitting at Sherlock's side was conspicuously absent.

Shaking his head, Sherlock thrust his hands up; combing long fingers through unruly dark hair with a complete disregard to the fact that they were covered in blood.

Hauling in a desperate breath he attempted to get control of his errant emotions. The younger Holmes had always prided himself on his methodical and logical approach to any and all problems. The solution was always out there, one simply had to _look_.

Currently his ability to do that had been overwhelmed by the sheer magnitude of these unwanted and uncontrollable _emotions._ The disturbing _feelings and emotional responses_ had broken loose of their metaphorical prison and now the damn things refused every attempt to shove them back into the _bottle._

John's soft words did what they always managed to do, they slowed down the speed of Sherlock's incredibly fast mind and allowed the consulting detective to _focus_. A sense of calm settled over him, it was totally incongruous with the situation he now found himself in, but it was there none-the-less.

Pulling in a slow breath Sherlock forced his brain to work for him instead of against him.

A slow smile worked across his generous lips as he realized something a toddler should have known. Reaching inside his Belstaff Sherlock pulled out a simple coin and placed the rough edge against the smooth glass of the window. With a self-satisfied smirk he pulled the coin toward himself scoring the pane with a long five-inch scratch.

Placing the coin back inside his pocket, he swallowed and steeled his nerves for the pain he was about to inflict upon himself. He ran his fingers over the scratch to ensure that he knew exactly where it was before drawing his fist back in preparation. He glanced at the roof of the police cruiser, nodded once, and sent his knuckles careening toward the etched glass.

The sudden sound of shattering material sent a thrill of success coursing through him even as the pain _popped_ along his knuckles resulting in a "boxer's fracture". But to his delight his hand was suddenly outside the car. With a smile of success, one he always wore when he was _right_ , Sherlock reached out with his left hand and lifted the handle from the outside, the door swung open easily.

Climbing out into the waning sunlight, Sherlock shivered at the brisk chill in the air. He was surprised when his brain threw an image of a shivering and slightly blue John at him. Stumbling under the weight of the unexpected emotions now racing through him, Sherlock steadied himself against the police cruiser.

He'd never realized just how important the doctor had become, not until John had removed himself from Sherlock's world. Even now the detective found that he was _humbled_ by the fact that he could claim John Watson as "a friend". _No, not just a 'friend', but my 'best friend'._ Why the other man had seen fit to reach out and pull Sherlock back from his own madness defied comprehension. And yet, John had done exactly that.

Swallowing the gnawing shards of fear he glanced into the distance. The fact that he might be too late to save John, as he'd done for Sherlock, cut into the thin man as no knife could have. Thinning his lips, he 'popped' the collar of his Belstaff and shuffled toward the distant building, one that, he was certain imprisoned John.

221B 221B

Mycroft followed behind the Scotland Yard Inspector with jarring steps, his attention shifting with every unknown sound; a bit like a nervous deer. While he was fearless from the interior of his concrete offices, Mycroft was too smart not to understood just how vulnerable they were at the moment. His heart was hammering inside his chest and his thoughts were flitting to his, no doubt, enraged younger brother.

It would be a very long time before Sherlock forgave him for what he'd just done.

He tamped down the thought that his brother was notoriously unpredictable where John Watson was concerned and that there was no way to know if he and Lestrade would ever be _forgiven_ for their actions at the car.

A moldy wet smell assaulted his senses causing him to wrinkle his nose in disgust just before they took another set of stairs; stone steps that were leading them further from the fresh outside air. Neither he nor the D.I. had said anything once they'd walked away from the enraged threats Sherlock had bellowed at them, in no less than four languages.

 _He really is a genius._ Calling his drug sensitive little brother a genius was in no way a concession on Mycroft's part. Sherlock was a certifiable _genius_. He was also a certifiable _idiot_.

His little brother had told Mycroft that when John had first met him the doctor had called the consulting detective out on his little _jaunt_ with the serial killing cabbie. When Sherlock had referred to himself as 'brilliant' for his game with the man, John had simply told Sherlock he was 'an idiot'. It was that exact moment that the tenuous friendship had solidified into something more tangible. And that had been the moment when Mycroft knew that John Watson's life would be forfeited at some point because of his friendship with Sherlock.

Shaking off the oppressive thoughts, the man that knew the inner workings of the entire British Government returned his attention to the task at hand. _Rescue John Watson. Protect Sherlock from the psychopathic billionaire that is desperate to see him dead and buried, and finally take a long hot bath._

Lestrade stumbled to a stop causing Mycroft to slam into his back. He swore softly and glared down at the police officer in irritation. Glancing over his shoulder the detective inspector placed a gloved finger against his lips, jerking his head toward the left.

The taller Holmes leaned forward just enough to see what had caught the police officer's attention. Just ahead of them the bouncing light of a torch was steadily growing. The two men plastered themselves against the inner wall willing the darkness to hide their presence.

"Is he dead?" The accent was indeterminable, but the meaning was crystal clear.

Mycroft's eyes jerked over to meet the wide concerned gaze of the D.I. Lestrade shook his head. Both them were silently praying that these men hadn't managed to kill the compact little Army doctor.

"If not, he'll wish he were soon enough." This time they both recognized Culverton's tin-like tone. A snort of laughter worked along the hallway, landing on the would-be rescuers like a ton of bricks.

The light shifted as the men turned down an unseen corridor, their voices fading into the distance as the light finally disappeared.

Lestrade took a halting breath before slowly peeling himself away from the damp wall. Swiping a hand through his greying hair he turned a pointed _look_ at the older Holmes. Still unsure whether or not they were alone he lifted his hands in a "what now" gesture.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed, his head swung in the direction the two men had come from and he pointed into the darkness. It was clear that he wanted to search that area for the doctor. The officer nodded once and began moving down the corridor, his left hand slid along the wall in order to keep his bearings. He moved silently and with a purpose, which the elder Holmes greater appreciated. He didn't want to spend any more time in the dilapidated warehouse than strictly necessary.

The arrival of Culverton and his man meant that they couldn't risk turning on their torches again; they'd have to proceed forward in relative darkness.

221B 221B

John curled in on himself as every nerve fired off when he was unable to control a cough, an agonizing cacophony of pain swirled through him leaving nothing untouched. He willed his body to move when he heard a door open, yet they did nothing. He begged his tired limbs to fight when hands he couldn't see held him down and injected a burning liquid into his system, again there was nothing left. And finally, he prayed he'd be lucky enough that whatever they'd just given him would simply _kill him_. He was so tired. Life had worn away at his will and he would have been happy to have it all end.

John Watson had never been a _lucky man_.

Every cell in his body was now alive and burning away at his nervous system in a coordinated attack. A pained moan slipped past his lips and he coughed violently when a spasm ran along the entire length of his body erupting in flashes white stabbing light inside his head. Slamming his eyelids shut he wished for death…

He didn't know how much more he could take. The human body wasn't meant to withstand this kind of abuse. During his time as a military doctor he'd seen the tattered emotional and physical remains of more than one soldier.

However, there was only one that stood out as truly _horrifying_ , a young medic that had been taken by the enemy during a botched mission. The soldier had been kept prisoner for more than six weeks before his unit managed to locate and extricate him. They'd rushed the barely breathing man to John's emergency room before taking up residence in the tiny waiting area, for the next 48 hours they waited to see if their teammate would live.

He did, for a time.

John remembered the young soldier with vivid clarity because he'd never seen a human body so badly damaged. At least not one that still had a pulse.

Over the next two days John barely slept as he struggled to save the medic's life. The varying multitude of catastrophic injuries had forced the doctor to call upon every skillset that he had learned over his last seven years as a field surgeon. He'd even had to learn some new ones.

This young soldier was truly a mess. He'd been tortured using archaic means, ones that had no place in a world that claimed to be _civilized._ The skin had been filet off his left leg from his hip to just below the knee. A sharp object had then been inserted beneath the kneecap at several points damaging, and in some cases shredding, the tendons and ligaments. The soldier was so thin that he was barely more than a skeleton with skin stretched over it. Sores had developed all over his body and been left for so long that they were now severely infected; so sepsis had been a very real concern. To make matters worse, the bones of his face been broken and allowed to heal at odd angles, several times. All of this was tangible evidence of the horrors of his numerous torture sessions.

And yet peeking out between the swollen, discolored flesh had been the bright green eye of a terrified child barely out of his teens. It had torn at John's heart that he couldn't erase the awful memories of this young man's incarceration. While he could heal the body, the mind was a different animal all-together and not one he was skilled at dealing with.

In the end it hadn't been the terrible injuries that had stolen the young man's future; it had been his mind. Unable to escape either the pain or the mental trauma, the soldier had taken his own life.

John hadn't understood how someone that had survived something so horrific and then endured months of physical therapy and countless surgeries, could give up so completely.

He understood now. Pain could be tolerated, but trauma to the mind was different.

When Sherlock had _died_ , he cringed internally at the memories this line of thinking pulled to the surface, John had barely held on. He'd been so completely alone until he'd met the self-proclaimed _sociopath_ that he'd considered 'ending it all'. The tall irritating young man had given him something to hone in on, someone to _save_. Sherlock Holmes had given John a purpose and he'd clung to that knowledge with a desperation that still clouded his judgment.

But in the end he hadn't managed to save Sherlock Holmes. He'd fallen victim to his own games and been forced to leave the playing field before he'd been ready. Or at least that's what John had thought for close to three years. That failure had eaten away at him every single day, slowly eroding his desire to 'soldier on'.

Once again John had found himself staring at that damned pistol with a longing need to place the end in his mouth and see if there really was an afterlife. Perhaps if he were lucky, he and Sherlock would be relegated to the same fluffy cloud…or molten rock, whichever place they were sent to. He had his own opinions on which one _he_ was likely to see.

But then Mary Morstan had happened. She'd been like feeling the sun after two years of desolate cold darkness and he'd clung to that with a desperate need that had surprised even him.

John wasn't a stranger to relationships with the fairer sex, he'd been _in lu_ st before, but he'd never been _in love,_ not until Mary. She managed to fill the jagged cracks in his tattered soul. It hadn't been perfect; they hadn't been _perfect_.

Sherlock's absence had been blatantly obvious every single day, but it was so much better than eating a bullet. Because as a man of science he really didn't subscribe to the idea of heaven or hell, although he certainly _hoped_ that he wouldn't spend eternity staring at the top of his very plain _coffin._

His thoughts drifted back to the day he found the soldier. The day after he'd chosen to end his life. John would never be free of those images. Even now, more than ten years later, he was haunted by the bloody truth of that man's decision. It had been those images that stayed his own hand on more than one occasion before and after Sherlock's _death_.

From somewhere beyond the grave he could hear Sherlock's rick baritone, " _Your life it not your own. Your death is something that happens to every one else._ " While he would never fully understand why his friend would say this, especially when _he'd_ committed suicide, it had paused John's suicidal thoughts.

The doctor chose not to delve too deeply into the fact that he had not felt the same suicidal compunctions following Mary's death. Oh he'd been angry all right. More than angry, he'd been enraged that Sherlock's inability to leave a puzzle unsolved had cost his beloved wife her future, but John hadn't been ready to taste gunpowder over it. Maybe that was because of Rosie or maybe he'd simply grown up during the last five years, he didn't know for sure. What he did know was that as devastated as he was over his wife's death, he knew he would find a way to _soldier on_. He hadn't been able to do that after Sherlock.

Something flickered near him and he shifted his eyes toward it. Staring for several seconds, he began to wonder if he'd imagined it when nothing happened. As his eyelids started to fall closed again a shaft of light pierced the small void between the dirt floor and what had to be the door. _Oh God. Go away, please go away. I can't take anymore._ Panic seized his heart at the thought of what his captors might have in store for him now.

The pounding beat of his heart sent the blood racing though his system. The medical doctor in him considered the poison that had been injected into him, but the broken man inside didn't care about any of that. He was terrified and pain and drugs clouded his thinking.

A sudden burst of fire exploded inside his chest forcing a wail of pain that caused pulsing white lights to nearly blind him. He thought he heard something as he was thrust into the waiting darkness, but he couldn't be sure.

221B 221B

Sherlock reached out with his left hand, just before he touched the cold metal handle he paused. What if John was already dead? What if he was too late? Calling upon every meditation technique he'd ever studied, the detective placed trembling fingers on the handle. He'd been intent on carefully opening the door and slipping silently into the room when a tortured moan erased all thoughts of stealthy advance from him. Ignoring the object protruding just beneath his hand, he pressed down; nothing happened. His brain supplied a critical piece of information; beneath his hand was a _key._ Nearly roaring his frustration when the door didn't immediately open, he managed to use his broken fingers to twist the long cold key just beneath the handle.

A "click" alerted him of his success. The creaky door began to swing inward…

TBC…

 _ **Author's Note**_ … _Okay, so the actual rescue will happen in the next chapter. Culverton still has his 'comeuppance' looming and Sherlock's knowledge will bring down the tottering bastard. Mycroft and Lestrade? Where are they you might ask? Well, you'll have to read the next chapter to find out just what happened to them and why Sherlock managed to find John and they didn't._

 **Reviews?: If you have a moment, please let me know if anyone is still following this?**


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